


Vita et Amor(Life and Love)

by tardisswimmingpool



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, mycroft holmes/Greg Lestrade - Freeform, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:04:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2172057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisswimmingpool/pseuds/tardisswimmingpool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex. Usually something associated with a committed relationship or love. Well, Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade have had a strictly sex relationship kept secret for several months now. Mycroft is starting to realize how unprofessional and unhealthy that is, but he is torn on what to do when Greg suggests they pursue a real relationship. He panics, and they end up just canceling their interactions for awhile. But, without each other, both Mycroft and Greg start to relive painful memories, and they realize they need each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It is what it is

(The images replayed like a video tape in his mind. Greg. Greg was on top of him, pushing into him. 'Harder, harder.' Sweat poured down his face, and he scrunched up his nose from the pain. He could feel Greg inside of him, and, although it felt like he was being split in half, he didn't want it to stop.) 

Mycroft's eyes shot open. 

The ceiling fan rumbled as it span around, blowing cool air over his hot and sweaty body. The guilt of what had occurred soured through his brain, and he felt sick thinking about it. He felt sick anyway. All that alcohol. 

('Mycroft' the word spilled from his lips, 'kiss me.' He felt him slip out, and he shrieked from the pain, but Greg silenced him with his mouth on his.) 

Greg was still snoring next to him, his hand resting comfortably on Mycroft's chest. Although he quite enjoyed watching the other man sleep, he denied himself that satisfaction because it didn't feel right. He lifted Greg's hand off of him, and bolted up. The bed shook, and Greg's eyes fluttered open.

"Myc?" He asked in his sleepy voice.

('Myc' Greg bit Mycroft's lower lip.- M: that's enough talking-.)

"It's Mycroft," was the other man's gruff response.

Mycroft's hands grasped for his shirt, and he threw it over his head, his limbs getting caught in the process and leaving him struggling to get them through the arm holes. The whole scene looked like a five-year-old. His pants lay in a heap on the floor along with his underwear, and his privates dangled between his legs, sore from the previous night's choice of activities. Well, sore is an understatement.

His lover eyed him curiously as he clothed himself and offered his assistance for the man was having some issues. He declined. Once he was fully dressed, he stared back at Greg. The look on his face either embarrassment or dread. He had promised himself he wouldn't keep doing this. Greg had too. And yet, there they were. 

"Are you feeling better?" Greg had asked in hopes of loosening the tension that was building in the room.

"Hungover."

"Do you want me to make some tea?"

Mycroft ignored him.

"You are aware how unprofessional this is," Mycroft had said, trying to avoid looking at Greg who was still undressed and standing before him completely nude-his eyes kept sneaking peaks as he buttoned up his shirt.

"What would happen if Sherlock found out?" He said. 

"He's not going to find out," Greg approached him and reached out, slipping his fingers underneath Mycroft's shirt to stroke his chest. "Besides, this is business. The two of us work together for the most part."

The touch of his fingers sent goosebumps up his flesh. They felt soft against him, and the sensation was a huge turn on. 

('It tickles' Mycroft yelped as Greg ran his tongue over the contour of his body.) 

No, he was telling himself.

"Stop it," He swatted Greg's touchy fingers away and turned opposite of him.

"You work for me," Mycroft corrected, "You do what I tell you to do."

"I'm not your bitch, Mycroft," Greg snapped.

(Mycroft walked in the door. Greg was sitting in his armchair with a bottle of beer in his hands. He hiccuped, and Mycroft laughed as he began to unbutton his shirt.)

Greg shook whatever he had been thinking away and added, "and besides, it's just simple adult interaction."

"I wouldn't say giving blowjobs to a government official would count as simply an interaction."

"What? Everyone does it," Greg said and the smirked. " But talk about sucking up, huh?"

He was trying to make things ease up between them. Greg knew this was going to end badly regardless, but he had to try. His efforts failed. 

"That's what you do, isn't it? You think you're clever. You're probably proud of yourself," Mycroft growled.

( 'You're so hot," Greg giggled childishly as the two of them lied together in bed.) 

Although he'd usually try to avoid conflict, Greg wasn't too keen on being treated the way Mycroft was currently treating him. However, he could've planned his next choice of words a little bit better. 

"For what? Nailing you?"

"Nailing me?" Mycroft frowned. "If anything, I nailed you. Which is far lower than my usual standards."

"Your standards? I didn't know you had standards. I didn't even know you felt," Greg's voice was raising.

"I don't." 

"Then why are you here?"

"Sex is sex."

That part hit him. Greg felt his chest ache and breathed heavily before exploding with his feelings. 

"So is it normal for you to go around shagging people you want to spy on your brother then?" 

"Not particularly," Mycroft said, still frowning. "Although, you are an exception."

"And what's so special about me?" Greg crossed his arms,

He stood there, staring him down and awaiting an answer. It was an honest question. Never in his life did Greg expect the best sexual experiences he had ever had to come from someone so stone-hearted and cold as Mycroft Holmes. Obviously, there was a reason. He wondered what his own reason was. Mycroft's was a selfish bastard, and yet he was still snogging him. 

"I don't know. It could be that my body is betraying me and developing attractions," Mycroft said.

"Is that so?" Greg shifted his arms a little bit. 

"Perhaps."

"So you're saying that you are attracted to me?" Greg asked.

"I don't know what I'm saying."

"From what I gather, I would say it's true."

"You are an inspector," Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Well, if I am correct," he grumbled, "Would you possibly consider pursuing this further?"

Mycroft was actually a little caught off guard by this question, and it took him awhile to form a response. During this time, he no longer looked angry.

"Relationships and work don't mix Greg," he said. 

"I've seen lots of people do it."

"Greg," Mycroft turned to look at him. "I don't know how you interpreted this, but, regardless of how I feel, this is just sex. Sex can mean love, or so I've heard, but this was just sex. I don't love you, Greg. I'm not certain of how I think of you. But I don't love you." 

Greg was hurt by this. It wasn't like it was unexpected, but he had really hoped Mycroft would have a change of heart before Greg got the courage to ask him. Or it could still be the alcohol talking-from both sides. The next thing Greg never thought he'd find himself saying.

"But I like you," his voice softened.

The next thing even more unexpected. 

"And I you," Mycroft's voice softened too. "But that's not who I am." 

Mycroft checked his watch. It wasn't yet sunrise, but he had to get to the office. Too much paper work. England would fall if it wasn't for him. And besides, he was expecting Sherlock to show up early. If he left now, he could stop by his house and catch a shower and change before heading into work. He stared at Greg, and, even though he was angry, he could feel the guilt rising in his throat.

"I have to go," he said. 

He walked past Greg. His heart beat heavily in his chest which he didn't really understand why. 

"Mycroft, wait!"

"No, Greg."

The front door to Greg's apartment slammed shut. 

Mycroft stood with his back against the door of Greg's apartment for awhile. As soon as he stormed out, a realization had fallen over his head, and he contemplated going back to apologize for the behavior he had just exhibited. 

The problem was, it was true. Everything he had said. Or at least he thought it was. But he felt guilty. Did that mean it wasn't? He must've had some reason to keep coming back here. If he was really in if for the sex like he said, he could've gotten that from anyone. And yet, he kept coming back to Greg. 

('I'm cold.' With the alcohol still influencing their decisions, Mycroft and Greg actually found themselves snuggling on the couch. Mycroft was freezing, so Greg covered the two of them with his blanket. They situated themselves close to one another, and Greg lied his head down on Myc's chest, smiling with each heartbeat that pounded in his ear.)

His heart was still racing.

Meanwhile, Greg was still standing naked in his bedroom. He didn't exactly know how to respond to what had just happened. He had been turned down for one. Shot down actually. There they were, naked and in his bedroom, fooling around and having a great time. He felt good. He felt great. He felt loved. Next thing he knew, his so-called lover is telling him he doesn't want to pursue a relationship. This was understandable, Greg supposed, given their situation. It was unprofessional. It was unhealthy. But he really liked being with Mycroft. Screw labels. He liked Mycroft. He just wish he didn't...

Mycroft shut himself inside his car and stared at the reflection of his face in the mirror. The whole image screamed pathetic and desperate. That's what he was, wasn't it? A man so desperate for physical attention that he'll jump in bed with the nearest person that'll talk to him. What kind of messed up shit was that? He knew it was wrong, but he could feel his heart betraying him. He didn't want to care. 

Dammit, he pressed on the gas petal and drove off. 

Greg fell back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.

(Mycroft's lips were so smooth and fit like a puzzle piece against Greg's own. And the two of them moved together in unison. His body eased closer.)

"I'm such an idiot," Greg thought to himself.

Coincidentally, Mycroft was thinking the same thing about himself.

-

Mycroft pulled his car up into the driveway of his house, and studied the front door for a moment. From his position in the driver's seat, he couldn't tell exactly what it was that was odd. However, as he stumbled up the steps to the porch (I say stumbled because he was still feeling nauseous and disoriented), he noticed it opened when you pushed slightly. 

"Shit," the first thing he saw when he entered was his brother, staring at him and grinning in that childish way of his. 

Sherlock was sitting comfortably on Mycroft's couch with his feet up on the coffee table. 

"Oh, hello, brother dear," he said, cheekily.

"I'm not doing this," Mycroft ignored him, and directed himself towards the bathroom. 

"Kinda early for you to be slipping back in, don't you think?"

"I went for a morning run."

"Is that so?" Sherlock hopped to his feet and skipped over to block Mycroft from leaving the room. "I smell alcohol on your breath. Take a run to the bar, did we? A little early for that. I didn't even know they were open. Special government privileges from the owner? Some sort of trade?"

"Move," was Mycroft's response. 

"Ya know, I stopped by late last night. Inconvenient I know, but in my defense I was on a case. I was here in hopes of asking permission to do something. Not that I need permission of course because you let me do pretty much whatever I want. That's either out of brotherly compassion- highly doubt it- or you deep down you know that I'm that real thing that keeps England from falling."

"So what is it?"

"What is what?"

"You wanted permission for something."

"Oh, I already did it."

"Of course you did," he rolled his eyes. 

"Anyway, after doing the thing of which I'm pretty certain you wouldn't approve of, I stopped near here again and noticed your car was missing from your driveway. It was nearly midnight."

"I was out."

"That's what I figured. Proven by, like I said, the alcohol on your breath."

"It's none of your business."

"Do give my love to Lestrade when you get the chance," he grinned, " It's been far too long since I've solved a case for him." 

Mycroft froze. Deep down he was panicking, but the surface of his brain was telling him he should've suspected this all along. Nothing gets past Sherlock Holmes.

"I did wish you picked somebody more appropriate for a sexual partner. I mean, Gavin...he's pathetic, desperate. And he doesn't ever observe. Inspector. Pff...He's an idiot at best."

"Greg."

"What?"

"His name is Greg."

"You would know," the look on his face was pure satisfaction. 

"You're so pleased with yourself, aren't you? You think you know everything."

"Quite a job to deduce you, Mycroft. If I didn't know the difference between your workout sweat and sweat from....er other activities, I wouldn't be able to tell otherwise."

"Fuck you."

"Such harsh language."

"It's not like that..." He grumbled. "Besides, it's over."

"What a shame...." His voice trailed off.

"What?"

"Oh, I was just so hoping to receive a wedding invitation soon. You know how I just love weddings," Sherlock mocked.

"You didn't seem so happy when John Watson ran off with Mary," Mycroft sneered, "Don't get involved, I told you."

Sherlock was taken back by this comment, but he tried not to let his own feelings get in the way of teasing his brother.

"I'd listen to your own advice, brother mine," he smirked, "Starting to care now, are we?"

"I told you it's over," he growled, "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Oh, I was just worried."

"I bet you were," he pushed past him and slammed the bathroom door.


	2. Angie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg finds an old photo of his wife whom he is divorced from. He starts to question whether or not he knows what love is anymore. Or if he ever did.

Greg searched through the load of crap he had piled in his closet, but he couldn't find what he was looking for anywhere. This was odd because he specifically remembered stashing it in the back somewhere. It seemed like forever ago. He pushed past all the clothes, and threw around a bunch of papers, but there was still nothing. 

"Where is it?" 

Finally, he pulled it out and blew off the dust that had accumulated on the glass. It was a picture frame-an old one at that. He actually remembered his great aunt giving it to him for his birthday when he was a kid. She said to save it, and to not let anyone else use it. And when he asked why, she responded by saying he needed to save it for someone special. A memory he wouldn't ever want to forget. Perhaps someone he fell in love with. At the time these words were meaningless. 

He took the frame in his hands and sat down on the bed to examine it. 

The picture in the frame was in black and white. Not because it was old and taken before colored prints were available, but because it seemed more elegant that way. Elegance was the term to use, correct? Greg didn't know. It wasn't his decision to make. The photograph was of him and his wife. The memory was very vivid in his mind as he stared at it. Almost like a complete transportation back to the event.

The two of them. Him and Angie. Their arms wrapped around each other. They took it in the gazebo by a lake in America. He couldn't remember where exactly. Amazing how time erases things as simple as that. 

She had grown up in the U.S. and her parents wanted the wedding to be close to home so all her relatives could attend the ceremony. None of Greg's family members came except for his mother. His father didn't approve. Hell, think of what he'd say now if he was still alive.

The sun had been setting, and, although you could not see it in the picture, the sky was a beautiful purplish orange color as the sun disappeared below the horizon. Music had been playing in the background-upbeat and exciting as most after-parties are. The whole ceremony had been outside, but it took place up at the house. That's where everyone was. They were all mingling and drinking wine while the two of them were alone down in the gazebo. Well, alone, except for the person taking the picture. 

It had been a little cold that day. Not too bad, but just enough to give Greg the opportunity to hug her tightly and not let go. She never argued. Their photographer had left them alone to look out over the water together. The light illuminated off the surface and casted a glow across the lake. Beautiful.

She began to sing along with the music, and grabbed his hands to dance. He was never much of a dancer, so he followed her lead. It was nothing traditional, and it was more hopping and twirling at best, but it ended with both of them rolling on the ground and laughing. The reasoning being she had dripped on one of Greg's clumsy feet, and she toppled over on top of him. They smiled at each other in that way couples do. You could really see the love in their eyes then. And they kissed passionately like they'd be like that forever. 

Greg wondered what happened.

That was probably the last happy moment in his life. From then on the marriage had only caused conflict between the two of them. They never got along. They were constantly fighting over the silliest of things, and had considered therapy on a number of occasions. And as the years drifted by, Greg's happiness seemed like a mere shadow in the corner of what was now his life. Things just kept getting worse. And the next thing he knew, she was gone.

Greg found himself thinking of her a lot lately. Although it had been a few years and she for sure had committed herself to another and better relationship, he felt himself missing her. Not HER exactly, but the way she made him feel. Well, before things went wrong.

Angie had made him feel secure. She ridded him of his anxiety both about his interests and his body. He missed the feel of her up against his him- her hot breath on his neck, whispering his name. But most of all he missed hearing the words "I love you" escape her lips. 

He guessed that was it. He missed the feeling of being loved. But there was no way he was getting that from Mycroft. He had been right about what he said before storming out of Greg's apartment. He didn't love Greg. But Greg was confused about his feelings for him. He liked him, but he wasn't even certain what love was. Did he love him? No, that was impossible. Who could fall in love with a man like Mycroft?

But he so missed the warmth of another body against his. Hot and sweaty. Sticky. Sex. But also just the natural warmth of a person's body heat. Snuggling. Keeping him safe. Mycroft gave him that. A sense of security was slowly crawling back to him.

But the problem was he had only agreed to this -frankly stupid- agreement because he wanted to prevent himself from getting his heart broken again. But...it was happening anyway. He felt himself being torn apart inside every time he thought of Mycroft. His heart was merely a few shreds left from disappearing back into the cold darkness it had temporarily escaped from.

The whole thing felt a bit dramatic. Stupid even. But Greg couldn't help it. It had been so long, he fell in love so easily. Pathetic. Desperate. That's what he was. 

He thought back to his great aunt. She had told him that he would fall in love one day, and this frame would hold the memory forever. She said that one day it would seem like forever ago, but like you could just step back through the picture back to the happiest day in your life. The frame had previously been hers that she had placed a picture of her and his grandmother as kids. Jacqueline, his great aunt, had never gotten married, but the most important person in her life had always been her sister. Greg's grandma died when he was really young, so Jacqueline bought that frame and put a picture of them in it. She made a big deal of it whenever Greg came over. She said that she'd always be there in their hearts. And they would speak to her for time to time as they walked past the frame which they had sitting on the living room mantle. It kept her memory alive.

She gave the frame and picture to Greg before she died. It was her one request, she had said. Greg needed to keep that frame, and remember them both, her and Greg's grandma, when he found the right picture. Her words replayed in his head, almost like whispers directly into his ear. 

"Love is sneaky. Search for it. Find it. Hold on to it. And don't let it slip away."

They seemed to make even less sense now. He thought he knew what love was when he was with Angie, but that whole understanding left with her. Maybe he never truly knew at all. All he knew was that now he was alone and afraid. It was like an endless void. Pitch black. And he yearned to crawl out and learn to trust again.

He opened up the back of the frame and removed the photograph. It stared up at him and taunted him. For some reason, he felt himself getting emotional about it. He knew that part of his life was over, but his body wouldn't let it go. It took some effort, but he managed to fold it up and throw it into the garbage bin. There was no purpose of letting it rule his life anymore. 

That was over.

His eyes glanced over at his phone. He had set it on silent because he didn't want to hear it if it went off. Main reason being he had taken the day off and left Donovan in charge. Whatever it was she could take care of it. However, the light of the phone did not light up Donovan's name. It was Mycroft.

He hesitated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is so short. Just wanted to give a little look into what Greg is feeling at this point.
> 
> Thanks to anyone that is continuing the story with me :)


	3. Ole Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg may have his reasons for being hesitant to express his feelings, but he's not alone. Nobody is made of stone, and Mycroft has had some rough times as well. Just not exactly in the same way.

Mycroft's fingers hovered over the keys as he debated whether or not to click send. The words stared up at him, taunting him and making him feel even guiltier than he already was. Nothing he came up with could account for how unfair it was to Greg for Mycroft to have walked out on him like that. 

To be honest, he didn't mean half the things he had said. He did like Greg a lot. You could suppose he had developed some feelings towards him. If anything he didn't want to hurt him. 

So why did he say all those things? 

Well, he guessed, it was because he was afraid. Afraid of judgement. Afraid of trust. Afraid of heartbreak. So many things he had been avoiding for years. God ones why. 

His phone lit up in his hands, and the photo of his brother shone up at him along with his default ringtone. Mycroft remembered taking that picture as part of a blackmail thing that he never got around to. Shame really. It was a pretty interesting photograph. He didn't even know Sherlock had still kept that old stuffed dog. 

Not really in the mood for his brother's mockery, he slid his finger across the screen, and Sherlock's face disappeared, revealing Mycroft's screensaver. It wasn't the best quality of photo, given how he had taken it off an older picture in a scrapbook, but Mycroft refused to change it. Greg had asked about it before when he tried to calm Myc down, but it never helped. It just made things worse. I guess he never got over ole Redbeard either. 

He closed his eyes for a moment.

( Mycroft sat alone on the swing set as he watched all the other children playing tag. Nobody offered for him to join because he was the weird kid in the class that didn't like anything normal people liked. He was into strange things like reading medical textbooks and philosophy. He used to bring books on the history of business and books on detailed descriptions for scientific processes to school everyday, and he'd use that information to prove that the way the other kids looked at the world was unethical. The other kids usually just responded by throwing sand at him-he got it in his eyes once and had to visit the nurse. 

His eyes scanned the playground as each and every one of his classmates ran around and played together. He watched a girl giggle innocently when she was caught by one of the other boys. It didn't look like she had even been trying. She did it on purpose. What was that called? Flirting? Yes, that's what it was. Myc had heard the term from some of the other kids. They said that's what grow ups do to attract the opposite sex.

'But why would they want to do that?' He'd always ask. 

'Because they want to kiss, dumbo!' And they'd flick him in the arm while laughing because he didn't know basic information such as the definition of flirting. 

He didn't see what the big deal was anyway. Girls were stupid. Well, except one.

The girl that was giggling was Julianne Hamilton. She was very pretty, and Mycroft sort of had a crush on her. Well, he didn't call it a crush exactly. Even back then he never knew how to truly express any sort of feeling besides hatred. Although, he was able to comprehend the fact that she made him feel funny in the pit of his stomach. He liked the sound of her voice when if rang in his ears. He liked the smell of the perfume she wore everyday. She had said her mum told her to wear if for those unusual flirting purposes. Didn't make much sense for a fifth grader to be doing stuff like that.

But she never noticed him. And when she did, she called him things like fat and ugly. One time she had walked up to him and shook him by the shoulders so she could see his stomach and growing breasts jiggle. 

And she laughed in his face and said things like, 'Get a bra.' 

It always hurt his feelings, but it didn't stop that strange sensation.

His teacher stood at the far end of the yard, overseeing the commotion. He spotted Mycroft sitting by himself, but did not dare approach him. Even Mr. Timms didn't know how to handle a kid like Mycroft Holmes. 

On the the other end of the playground, Myc could see his baby brother-a few years junior to himself- examining pieces of sand with his magnifying glass. He had briefly mentioned that morning before school that he wanted to test it for something. Myc couldn't remember what. 

He considered going over there, but he knew he would not be welcomed. His brother hated him nearly as much as everyone else. Probably even more. Although he was still the closest thing he had to a friend that was human.

Sherlock looked up from his sand and saw his older brother staring at him from the swing set. He stuck his tongue out at him and continued his observations. Typical Sherlock Holmes behavior.

The school bell rang which meant that recess was over. All the kids ran to line up near the teacher, and they would start filing inside. Mycroft and Sherlock always fell behind. It was odd that Sherlock had recess with the older kids. Their mom said that he was too advanced to be around kids his age plus he was a risk for causing conflict. Disagreements with teachers, she had said. The school board suggested that, due to his intellect, he be moved up a grade. The same thing happened and he ended up moving up again into 5th grade where Mycroft was now. It didn't seem fair to Myc because he was just as smart as his brother. He could easily make it in a 6th or 7th grade class due to his knowledge from his excessive reading. He worked hard, but never was rewarded for that. Perhaps because he never caused trouble, so he remained where he was. It was too much of a hassle to move him, the teachers told him. And his mother kept saying Sherlock was a naturally born talent. Mycroft worked too hard. 

The boys no longer boarded a bus to go home after school like the other children did. They used to, but that privileged was stripped from them due to their previous behaviors. Myc used to sit towards the front while Sherlock sat in the back due to fighting, but Sherlock would always yell stuff up at him and throw his pencils at him. He never aimed correctly and his throw was weak, so it always ended up hitting other people. That's part of the reason they weren't allowed to ride buses anymore. That and the time when he stuck his gum in a girl's hair. He tried to make up for it by claiming it was a tradition in his native country to stick gum in the hair of pretty girls, but he was as English as you could get, and that silly accent he created wasn't fooling anyone. Mycroft used to laugh because his brother had actually believed he'd get away with it. Myc had read a lot of books in geography and Missidonia was not a real place. Most people with common sense would pick up on that one. Needless to say, they were pretty much done with the nonsense. 

Every since their mother came to pick them up in a cab. 

As usual the boys fought on the way home. Sherlock would start it usually by calling Myc some idiotic name that didn't make any sense, and when he would point it out to him, he'd receive a bunch of pokes and jabs in his side which would lead to him returning the favor with hair pulling. It was a chaotic ride as always.

When Mycroft opened the door to the house, he was greeted by a great big fluff of red fur. The weight against him knocked him over, and he was lathered with slobbery kisses. He struggled to free himself from the dog, but Redbeard persisted. He actually laughed. 

Sherlock walked in behind him and got down on his knees to pet Redbeard as well. Normally he'd push Myc out of the way, but he had decided to be decent after the fight on the way home. He petted and kissed the dog and then disappeared somewhere in the house.

'Go feed the dog, please, Mikey. I need to get dinner started," his mother would slip past him into the kitchen.

He clapped his hands together and lured the dog towards the laundry room where they kept his food dish.

'Come ere, Redbeard. Come ere boy!" and the dog would prance along behind him.

Redbeard accompanied Mycroft as he did his homework that night. The big lug would sit on his feet while he sat at his desk. Periodically he'd feel the moist sensation of a tongue licking at him. Sometimes he'd hear whining, and he'd get down on the floor to pet him some more. Occasionally he'd get down there, and the dog would just fall over like a rag doll, panting and wagging his tail as a way of saying he wanted his belly rubbed. Myc would. He'd rub the dog's belly, scratch his ears, play fetch with him, kiss his head, and the dog would return the favor by knocking him over and licking his face. Redbeard was his only real friend in the world. He made him happy.

He and his brother used to switch off on who got to sleep with the dog at night. Mycroft always looked forward to his turn. Even though it was every other night, he envied Sherlock when it was his chance. Redbeard always made him feel safe when he slept. He'd curl up against you and lay his head on your thigh, and, if you shifted a little, he would too. Mycroft always yearned for the slight smell of grass on his fur, and the warmth he got when he touched it. Sometimes he'd wake up in the middle of the night, and move his body so that he could bury his face in the dog's fur. The soft heartbeat would pound in his ears, and his head would rise and fall with the dog's chest. And yet, Redbeard never stirred.

After Redbeard was put down, Mycroft found himself reaching for the dog at night. The schedule for sleeping with him had been drilled into his brain, so when he had nightmares or he thought about how mean people were to him at school, he'd reach over to feel the fur underneath his fingers, but nothing was there. He used to cry sometimes, and grasp for a pillow to bury his face in. 

Their parents had gotten them a toy dog to share, but, of course, Sherlock took procession of it. Mycroft would watch him play with it sometimes and be happy, but he knew his brother cried at night too. He could hear the soft whimpering from the room next to him, and when he'd get up to go the bathroom, he'd casually walk past and spot him clutching the stuffed dog to his chest and whispering his name. Redbeard. Myc would walk on and try not to sniffle.

They never did get another dog. Nobody could replace ole Red.)

Because of Redbeard Mycroft had pretty much sealed off his heart completely. He wouldn't let anything in because he was afraid of falling in love and having it stripped from underneath him. Redbeard had been so special to both him and Sherlock. He was both of their's only friend in this fucked up world, and he was gone. Myc didn't want to risk losing anything ever again. 

He supposed that's why he shot down Greg. And, he figured, he did it so harshly because he was angry. Not at Greg, but at himself. Originally, while things were going on, he was mad at Greg for putting too much into nothing, but Greg wasn't the one who did wrong. Myc had led him on, and, although he yearned for someone to love him again, he wasn't willing to take that risk. 

He stared at his phone one more time and clicked send.

"7 o'clock tonight. I want to talk."- MH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another kinda short one. A lot of them are probably going to be like this, but I'll try for some longer ones later on. Hope you still like it.


	4. Toxic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has a dream....this has some smutty stuff in it.

Greg was lying on his couch, and staring up at the ceiling as he often did when he needed to think. He had some music playing in the background-classical- and his eyes would sometimes close for rest while the music swept through his ears. He found himself doing this a lot lately. With everything that had been going on, that's all he wanted to do. There was something about it that just transported him somewhere else. Somewhere where he could be himself, and he could be happy. Somewhere breezy and beautiful, a valley maybe or perhaps a private beach. He thought about the gazebo and the lake again. The water was so dazzling in the setting sun. He sat, imagining himself diving into the cool water and getting a flash of everything he ever wanted in the world. He'd swim out to the middle and just lie out on his back and float. It would be night now, and he'd look up at the stars and think about how much he wanted to just fly away and leave all his problems behind. And then he opened his eyes.

Greg couldn't even describe how much he wished his eyes could just remain closed forever. Then he could stay in this beautiful world he had created. Nobody would bother him. Nobody would hurt him. Everything would be perfect. He closed his eyes again, and drifted off.

(The doorbell rang, and Greg rolled off the couch to answer it. It wasn't normal for someone to be visiting him at this time of night so the first thing that came to mind was it was a visit from Sherlock. Oh joy. 

He wiped at his sleepy eyes, and tried to do anything he could on the way to the door to prevent himself from answering it-picking up books on the floor, fixing the rug, looking at his stubby chin in the mirror because he forgot to shave. The bell rang again.

"In a minute!" he called, and it'd be more like five. 

He was hoping that Sherlock would leave if he waited long enough, but he was persistent. The bell just kept ringing. Shit.

When Greg finally reached the door, he held out his hand and grabbed the doorknob, but did not turn it. 

"Greg! Open the door!" a voice from the other side of the door demanded.

That wasn't Sherlock.

Greg opened the door and was greeted by Mycroft pushing him up against the wall.

"Mycroft, what?" He was silenced by Mycroft's lips. "No," he gasped and fought back against the other man's approaching arms. "We can't do this." 

"Shut up," Mycroft said and kissed him angrily. 

"I thought.....mhm....you...mhm....oh god....I thought you weren't coming back."

"I need you," he breathed.

"I thought you didn't want that."

"I don't," Mycroft said. 

He pulled at Greg's shirt, desperately trying to pry the buttons loose. Pulling was doing no good, so he resorted to prying them open with his teeth. The shirt burst open, revealing Greg's smooth torso. 

"Don't," Greg told him.

But he couldn't help it. He was starting to get a boner.

"Don't. Please," he kept saying. "I don't want to do this anymore." 

Mycroft ignored him and got down to his knees. But instead of opening the fly of Greg's pants, he ran his tongue up his chest. The moist sensation sent shivers up Greg's spine. It was becoming so hard to hold back because the truth was, he did want it. Oh god, did he want it.

"Holy shit, yes," he gasped. "But we need to talk about this."

"Who needs talking."

He proceeded to lick every inch of Greg's upper body even across his mouth. He begged for entrance, but Greg denied him. Mycroft glared at him, but sucked at his lips, moving his fingers over the front of Greg's pants. Greg could feel the pressure Mycroft was putting on his mouth. The tongue. Thrusting it's way in. Greg kept shaking his head. Mycroft squeezed at his cock. The pressure...

"Since when do you play hard to get?" Mycroft laughed.

"I don't want to do this," Greg gasped.

"Why not?" Mycroft breathed in his ear.

"You don't love me," Greg whispered.

"I do."

"You do?"

"I lied before."

"But," Mycroft silenced him with another kiss.

Greg felt the lower part of his body cramp intensely, and he found himself screaming. Mycroft grabbed him by his shoulders and looked into his eyes. He was crying from the pain. 

"Let me," he said.

"I can't." 

"But I want it."

Greg couldn't hold it back anymore. He nodded. Mycroft turned around and slipped his pants down. Greg unbuttoned his fly.

And so the night continued. Hot, sweaty, moist. Twisting, twirling. Exchange of bodily fluids. Greg's tongue licked the side of Mycroft's face. His penis ached, and he was breathing heavily. He felt his partner shift back into position.

"Please, no more." 

"Flip over," He ordered.

Greg did, and he felt the other man inside him once more. Shit, it was so painful. The thrusting. Harder and harder. 

"Mycroft," he shrieked.

He just got a shot of hot breathe down his back in response. 

"Oh, please." 

"Just a little more," Mycroft said.

The pain. The pain.

Greg shot awake. He clutched at his racing heart. He was soaked in sweat. He jumped to his feet, and sighed from relief when he realized that the blanket he had been sitting on wasn't covered in semen. That's all he needed- evidence of a wet dream. 

He glanced over at his phone that he had sitting on the coffee table which was lit up. It was three o'clock and there was a message.

"Please, Greg- MH "it said. 

Mycroft...he remembered the argument. He remembered the heartbreak. He remembered the text from earlier about wanting to talk. It was all coming back, and overriding the slight joy he had picked up from that fantasy. He remembered the picture frame and how he thought he might finally have a photo for it. And he remembered the darkness. The void. The hole in his heart. 

But for some odd reason, he yearned to see his face. He needed to at least tell him how he felt. 

"It's important-MH" the screen remained illuminated. 

Greg sighed, and reached for the phone. 

"Where?-GL" he typed

There was a moment of silence where Greg just stared at his phone, his heart still racing and sweat beads still forming on his forehead with each second a message did not appear. Those seconds felt like years....decades... centuries. His head was pounding, and he bit his lip.

"Cafe Bakerstreet-MH"

"7?-GL"

"7-MH"

The phone sat in Greg's hands, and he realized he was shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're still enjoying it


	5. Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As their set meeting time approaches, Mycroft starts thinking about how insecure he has always been, and if that could've contributed to his behavior towards Greg. A flashback to his childhood in secondary school physical education.

When Mycroft had arrived at his office earlier that day, he had pretty much restrained himself to his desk and refused to respond to anybody that happened to walk in. Several texts filed into his mobile, but he ignored them too. For a majority of the day he just sat there with his face in his hands, thinking. 7 o'clock seemed to be getting closer and closer, and he was becoming less and less confident on what he was even going to say to Greg. What would you say to someone after what happened? Especially since it JUST happened. Most people didn't come to conclusions so quickly, but Mycroft knew as soon as he left Greg's apartment that what he did was wrong. 

He tried to do anything possible to keep his mind off of it, but his paperwork never distracted him for as long as he wanted. Anthea came in a few times to attend to his personal needs, but all he really wanted was to be alone.

"Are you alright sir?" she would ask.

"Fine," he'd say, and then she would leave.

Anthea reminded him of Julianne Hamilton in a way. She had the same long, brown, hair that flowed gracefully off her shoulders, and that same smile that could either cause a warm feeling inside you or could bite your throat out if you pissed her off. She was pretty tall, and her voice was beautiful, but she spent most of her time on her phone and barely noticed him. Things never change.

He often found himself wondering about how he was the boss of people like her now. All those kids that used to make fun of him....what would they think of him now? What did he think of himself?

What did he think of himself...

( Going swimming was never a thing that Mycroft enjoyed. There's not even a word I could use to describe how much he despised the pool. His mother would say he was like a cat and didn't like to get his hair wet, but that wasn't even slightly true. Mycroft loved water. He used to take showers twice a day-before school and before he went to bed. And they lasted so long that he used to get scolded for wasting water. But he didn't care. He loved the cool rush over his face that distracted him from how badly he was feeling on the inside. But the pool did not give him this temporary satisfaction. In fact, it added to the ever growing insecurity.

He stood in front of his physical education locker with his hands grasped around the edges of his shirt, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. 

"Come on Holmes! The other boys are already dressed on the pool deck! Get your ass moving!" The coach shouted into the locker room. "And stop crying!" 

Mycroft didn't move. His hands clenched tighter, but they would not move his shirt over his head. The tears kept streaming uncontrollably, and he could've sworn he was on the verge of a panic attack. 

"Holmes! Come on!" his coach sighed and stormed inside the locker room to find Mycroft in a heap on the floor, clutching his chest and heaving in and out. "Holmes, what the hell is wrong with you? We've been through this every day. You're a 14-year-old boy. You can take your shirt off," he pulled Mycroft to his feet and took it upon himself to remove the shirt from the boy's body, revealing the bulge of his stomach.

"No, please! Let me keep it on," he plead, "I'll go in the pool, but, please, let me keep my shirt."

"Just come on," he grabbed Mycroft's arm and dragged him to the pool deck. "Now go stand over there next to your brother."

Mycroft stared down the line of boys, and sniffled. His arms were wrapped tight around his body, and he could hear whispers from some of the boys about the fat rolls peaking out from underneath. He glared at them. 

Sherlock was at the far end of the line, bent over the water with a test tube in his hands. He was busy filling up the tube, mumbling something about how it could be contaminated or, better yet, how to contaminate it without others noticing. Coach Raffle barked at him for bringing scientific toys into class again-it seemed to be a reoccurring problem. Sherlock backed away from the pool and stuck his tongue out at his brother once Mycroft had reached him. 

"Mum told you to stop taking samples at school," he informed his brother. "She'll be cross when she finds out." 

"She wouldn't find out if you weren't such a tattle tale," Sherlock growled. 

He turned away and crossed his arms without speaking another word to Mycroft for the rest of the period.

Coach Rafffle began class with a simple diving lesson. He had concluded that everyone was pretty much comfortable in the water-meaning they wouldn't drown-so he decided this was the next best step. All of the boys rushed to the back of the diving blocks. The school didn't have a dive team, but the swim team allowed for use of their equipment for gym purposes.

Sherlock was first up. Although he had no interest in the sport, he was an excellent diver. There was no getting around that. He stepped up onto the block, and the coach told him to take his mark. He had one foot over the edge of the block and the other back behind him. He bent down and his fingertips draped over the front along with his foot. His back was arched high in the air, and he looked down between his legs while he awaited the cue to go. The whistle blew, and he dove out. His arms were in streamline, and his head was squeezed tightly between his two arms. The entrance to the water was phenomenal in Coach Raffle's terms, so Sherlock received a round of applause from him when his head poked back out of the water. Sherlock seemed unaffected, and just climbed out. He returned to the corner of the room, and started examining the walls. 

Mycroft was next. A couple of kids giggled as he climbed on because of the way his butt wiggled in his pants as he walked. He positioned his body in the same way his brother had, and he heard one of the boys whistle in that way guys do to flirt with girls. He tried to ignore it, and the coach called out the boy for his rude and completely inappropriate behavior. 

"Position yourself so that you have a firm footing. You're shaking," the coach said. 

Mycroft tried, but he was losing his balance. The whistle blew, but he didn't move. All eyes were on him, and he could feel the anxiety creeping up his throat. Sweat formed on his brow.

"Come on fatso! Dive!" A kid shouted.

"Yea! I wanna go! Hurry up!"

"Move it!"

One of the boys walked up and shook the block a little for encouragement, or rather just a forced dive, but the sudden movement caused Myc to slip and he fell forwards into the diving well. He was so caught off guard that he didn't even have a chance to breathe before falling in. There was a loud splash. 

Mycroft couldn't remember much after that. He remembered his heart pounding in his chest because he hadn't breathed, and he was sinking rapidly. He knew how to swim, but his body was frozen for some reason. He didn't know if it was shock or fear or what, but his body would not move, and he could feel his chest aching from lack of oxygen. His vision was starting to blacken, and his eyes burned from the chlorine. But, as his consciousness slipped away, he could've sworn he heard the voices of his classmates taunting him in his ears.

"Fat!"

"Geek!"

"Gay!"

"Loser!"

"Crybaby!"

And then there was Juliane. The girl he had a crush on those few years ago. He still saw her around quite often, and she had not changed. Her image appeared before him, her hair flowing out with the water. 

"Get a bra!"

"Get a bra!"

"Get a bra!" She was laughing.

Myc could feel himself getting cold, and he wondered why nobody had bothered to dive in and save him. Maybe it would've been better off if he was dead. And then he saw Red. 

It had been a year since the dog had been put down, and he couldn't decide whether or not to smile. At the time he had forgotten his position, and he had forgotten that Red was not real. But then the water started to pour into his throat, and he finally began to struggle. The image swam towards him, and he found himself grabbing the collar on the dog's neck. Red pulled. 

Mycroft was only slightly conscious when Sherlock pulled him out of the water. The images around him were blurry, but he could hear the laughter. 

"Get the nurse!" He heard the coach yell.

Needless to say, Mycroft had never gone swimming since.)

Mycroft hugged himself, and could feel those dark feelings creeping up his body again. He had been so afraid. So alone. That's how he was feeling right now. It's how he always had been feeling. His body....it never looked right to him. It never felt right to him. He cried about it all the time. He dieted all the time. But it never made him feel any better. 

But it was different with Greg. But he couldn't. He just couldn't do it...

"Sir?" Anthea's head peaked into his office. "It's five-thirty sir? Are you heading out?"

Mycroft looked up at her. 

"Juliane," he whispered.

"What did you say, sir?"

"Nothing," he mumbled. "Yes, I'm heading out."

"I'll be waiting in the car, then?" She asked.

"Ok," and she left.

Mycroft reached for his coat which was hanging on a rack near his desk. He slipped it over his shoulders and stood up. 

"Not anymore," he whispered to himself. "I won't let anyone hurt me ever again."


	6. Remembering Hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets home from dinner with Mycroft. He knew as soon as he left that they were ending it, but he still cannot wrap his head around it. He gets home, and he starts to remember Angie again. He realizes that remembering hurts more than ever now. He doesn't want to remember. And a familiar enemy is calling out to him. The drink taunts him, and he takes a sip.

Dinner was silent for the most part. It took forever for Greg to spark up a conversation and, when he did, he wished he would've just stayed quiet. He already knew everything Mycroft had to say anyway. But at least he had been gentle about it, and Greg could tell it hurt him to say it as much as it hurt himself to hear it. At least there was some closure. 

Mycroft never said why he had made the decision to start having sex with him to begin with, but Greg assumed it didn't need saying. He was a lonely man pushed aside by the rest of the world and left alone in the darkness. And Greg had been there. 

He had said how he'd been feeling guilty about the situation for awhile. He knew it was wrong, but it felt so good that he betrayed his better judgement. And he had never thought abut how it had been affecting Greg. Sadly, Greg never thought about Mycroft's feelings either. And, looking back on it as he left the cafe on Bakerstreet, he realized that had been the most selfish thing of all. Their relationship had been toxic. There couldn't have been a better word to describe it. And yet...it felt like a ton of bricks had fallen on his chest when the words escaped Myc's lips.

"It's over." 

How could something be over if it never started? 

He decided to take a cab back to his flat-he didn't feel like speaking to more couples along the way. They'd just ask why he looked so solemn. Solemn...understatement. 

Shot through the heart. 

He spent that night staring up at the ceiling again. The past 24 hours felt like days, and he knew he'd have to return to work in the morning. Sleep was his best option, but his thoughts kept poking at his brain and prevented him from closing his eyes without imagining everything that had gone wrong. And then he saw Angie.

( She buried herself in her closet, rapidly tossing out anything that appealed to her or that she knew she couldn't live without. The clothes piled up on the bed next to her suitcase, taunting Greg with each new one that appeared. 

"You're not seriously leaving are you?" He asked, softly.

"What choice do I have, Greg?" She snapped, "This is working."

"But I don't want you to leave," he said.

She paused from tearing up the pile of shoes in her closet and turned to look at him. She crossed her arms, and her eyes were like daggers to his heart. Greg said nothing more.

He didn't want things to end this way. They had had problems since the beginning, but he could still see that sparkle of kindness and beauty in her eyes that he had seen all those few years ago. The gazebo and the setting sun, reflecting off the stunning blue pools of water that were her eyes. Her laughter shattering through the silence of the evening and casting a line of smiles everywhere she went. Especially him. He'd smile too. And her arms would wrap around him. He'd smell the hint of her fruity shampoo, and he'd just take in whiff after whiff. Her smell. And her shining beauty. She could have any guy she wanted, but she chose him. It was just the two of them, and the rest of the world meant nothing.

It was all still there-those memories- but he was having trouble seeing them. The light from the other side of an endless tunnel. He could just barely see it, but it was there. A trace of forgiveness and hope for a better future. But the tunnel was caving in fast, and it seemed farther and farther from reach with each passing minute.

But Angie could not see the end. There was no end to her. All she could see was Greg, and that was the last thing she had wanted to see.

He watched her pack.

He watched her cry.

He watched her leave.

He remembered the clash of vase against the floor when she had slammed the door. The vibrations had been so much as to completely shove it off the table. Shattered pieces were spread across the carpet, and Greg had ended up stepping on them when he rushed to bring her back. He followed her all the way down the street. Huffing and puffing. Panting like a dog. Yelling and screaming "Angie! Come back!" But the cab rounded the corner, and she was gone.)

Angie stood before him not at all like she had been the night she left. Her eyes were not sharp, but soft-sorrowful even. It was like she could emphasize with Greg on the way he was feeling although she had no clue. Those eyes...they knew so much and he so little. She had always been the wiser one. Greg was such a idiot, and Angie had never been a stranger to remind him of it. But now he realized she had been right. 

Her hand rested on his shoulder, and he could feel the warmth of her touch. The sensation he had been longing for for so long. The air escaped his mouth as he exhaled. 

"It'll be alright," she said.

"No," he mumbled. "I don't think it will."

It seemed so strange to have her standing next to him. It was too good to be true. Angie left years ago, but this image remained. The image of the woman he had fallen in love with back when he was still a young and naive man. Maybe he was still naive.

Angie whispered something to him about how there was still somebody out there, waiting for him. He'd find a picture for his frame someday. But Greg could care less about that dumb old picture frame. What was love if it'd always go away? You couldn't trust your heart to anyone without getting hurt. After all the heart is your strongest and most vulnerable aspect. 

"I don't know what to do, Ange," he whispered, "I feel empty again."

"Keep going," she said, and she disappeared.

Greg knew it wasn't real, but he kept thinking about her hand touching him.

He sighed and went to the kitchen where a can of beer was waiting for him in the fridge. He stared at it for awhile. It seemed to be taunting him because he knew that it could take the pain away. After all drinking had always brought him a sense of joy. His brain would be so clouded, nothing could get through. That's what he needed, for it all to go away. He could deal with his feelings in the morning, but all he wanted to do right then was to forget. Even just momentarily. One night when he could feel happy. Truly happy. Even though he was really broken. 

Greg remembered the issues he had had with alcohol back in college. College depression-he supposed. He used to feel like there was no other way. The drinks called out to him, and he wanted them too badly to ignore it.

He almost got into a car crash once-he remembered. He was so drunk, he didn't have the correct judgement to truly comprehend what he had done. The windows had crashed, and the glass cut up his face. The other driver was critically injured, and Greg walked away relatively unscarred. It wasn't until a few days later that the realization hit, and Greg recalled what happened.

The whole experience replayed in his nightmares for months. His heart would always feel like bursting through his chest once the cars collided. Sometimes it felt like it stopped beating all together. And he would be so scared. Greg saw the other man and how his head crashed into the glass. So much blood. He was unconscious, but alive. And he'd hear his mother's words in his ears about how it was his fault. 

"It's your fault..." soft words, but like gunshots to hear.

And he'd always wake up and cry because it was true.

He reached forward and opened the can. The beer swished as he moved it back and forth. His lips touched the rim of the can, but he did not dare take a drink. 

He thought about how alcohol had gotten him into this situation to begin with. Or at least it contributed. Greg's already broken heart played a big portion as well.

But this could help him forget.

He took a sip. It burned as it dripped down his throat. 

"Ack," he choked a little, but kept on drinking.

He finished it off relatively quickly, and he tossed it in the trash. There was a six pack in the garage. Greg knew it wasn't a good idea, but what else did he have to lose at this point?

A few cans later, and he no longer remembered why he was sad. Everything seemed blurry, and he couldn't walk straight, but he felt joyful. Every part of his body had suddenly been filled with energy, and he found himself laughing. Laughing. That's something he hadn't done in awhile. 

"Fuck it," he cheered, "Fuck everyone."

He hiccuped and then burped-the taste filling his mouth again. 

"Who needs people," he said, his body swaying. "People just...erp....haha....pppeople just hurt you." 

A sudden sense of dizziness fell over him-his whole head was spinning. It wasn't the first time this had happened. The void. It was returning. He could feel it. It was getting colder. It was getting darker. 

The last thing he remembered was looking up at the ceiling from his kitchen floor.

And he was still laughing.


	7. Summer Breezes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been a few months since the "break-up", and Mycroft starts thinking about an experience he had when he was young that brings forth his feelings about Greg again. A flashback to summer camp.

Relationships were never a thing that Mycroft did well, but he knew when he was falling in love with someone. It was always an unconscious drive, and he despised his human nature. His body always betrayed him, and his heart got broken. It wasn't just the situation with Greg either. Although, he felt like it was heading in that direction. Ever since the parting of ways a couple months before, the guilt was starting to elicit memories he had wished he had forgotten. For instance Jasper Clemens- summer camp. 

That summer was something Myc hadn't thought about in a long time because he didn't want to. The pain was still there even upon reflection, and, although it was so long ago, he could still remember the shivers, the whispers, and the warmth of another's skin against his own.

(It was the summer before his 15th birthday, and his mother was getting ready to abandon her two sons for another wretched 7 weeks of archery and crafts. 

"It'll be fun," she had said.

Fun...in the past five years that he had spent coming to that place, he never used the world fun as an adjective to describe his experiences. For one thing he wasn't much of a nature person-too many bugs, and it was always an uncomfortable temperature outside. And there was also the fact that the other kids always made fun of him. Well, "made fun of" was more of an understatement. One year one of his cabin-mates stuck a live snake in his pillow case. It wasn't poisonous, but it left a pretty nasty welt on his shoulder. He could still remember the hissing. 

And did he even need to mention the time someone "tripped" and knocked him into a clump of poison ivy? He itched for weeks. 

So ya...fun, not so much.

This year was the first his mother was sending Sherlock with him. Prior to that year, his brother had always managed to pull of being "sick" on their proposed day of departure. And then he'd spend the summer at home with his chemistry set while Mycroft had to suffer. It backfired though because their mom caught him pouring soup into the toilet to play it off as vomit. She figured it'd be good for him to get out, and try to bond with Mycroft and make new friends.

And so there they were.

The first couple of days ended up not being as bad as he had originally anticipated-which, in Mycroft's terms, was still not enough to convince him. 

The cabin was just like he remembered from years past and wasn't of much interest to him. Although, for once, his mates were fairly decent. There was a set of twin boys with abnormally curly, blonde hair who went by the names of Dimitri and Jarred. He couldn't recall their last name. Probably because he could never pronounce it to begin with. They weren't born in the UK, but he never found out where they were actually from. The two of them were nearing their 13th birthday.

The other boy was Jasper Clemens. He remembered their meeting quite well. Jasper was a year his senior, so he'd be turning 16 soon. He had just moved to the UK from America for his father's job, so his accent, like with the twins, seemed a little odd to him. He liked it though. After all Jasper probably thought the same thing about him. The boy had poofy black hair that Mycroft always wished he could feel because he imagined it was really soft. And his eyes. His crystal blue eyes...it was like a prince from a fairytale.

Jasper had come up to him straight away and introduced himself- no hesitation. Mycroft was a little caught off guard and didn't know how to respond.

"So?" Jasper persisted, "You are?"

"Mycroft Holmes," he muttered, "And this is my kid brother, Sherlock."

"Nice to meet you, Mycroft Holmes," he said in a sort of flirty way, and he grinned to show off the brightness of his teeth.

He and Jasper were to get to know each other pretty well over the course of those 7 weeks at camp. While Sherlock went off to test samples in the woods somewhere, Myc used to go down to the dock with Jasper, and they used to swim in the lake. Technically that was against the rules, but nobody went down there anyway. Mainly people spent their time in the volleyball court during their scheduled free time, or they'd be in the cabins playing board games or reading. 

He and Jasper used to splash around like five-year-olds and laugh when the other would trip on a rock or something and fall backwards into the freezing water. Sometimes they'd fall forwards, and the other would catch them. Mycroft would do it on purpose for the most part, and he figured Jasper did too because it gave them both an excuse to look into each other's eyes. The beautiful blue pools. And Jasper had told Mycroft that his eyes reminded him of chocolate. He liked chocolate.

When he looked at the other boy, Myc had for just a moment thought about the unusual feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. Happiness? No, it was more than that. He tried not to think about it because it was not logical for him to be feeling those kinds of emotions towards his friend. But he was joyfully surprised when the other boy seemed to notice the same sort of things about himself. 

They had talked about their love lives before. There were so many instances of sex occurring on campus, and the two of them never put much thought towards it because they didn't understand the point. Jasper had told him that he never had a true girlfriend before because they didn't ever make him feel the way he wanted to feel. The movies always glorified falling in love and living happily ever after, but he had never experienced those things when actually faced with a person. Perhaps those were just bumps along the way to finding what he wanted, but he didn't view relationships the same way as most people did. However there was something different about Mycroft that fell on the path he had been wanting to take. Although he wasn't sure what. 

So one day when Mycroft pretended to slip and fall into his arms, he took advantage of the opportunity to tell him about what he had been thinking. Mycroft tried to escape his hold, so he could stand up, but Jasper didn't let go of his arms.

"Come on," Myc laughed, "Let go."

But Jasper wasn't laughing anymore. In fact he had looked a little solemn. 

"What's wrong?"

"I have to tell you something."

"What?"

He hesitated, but leaned forward. Mycroft knew immediately what was going to happen, but he wasn't sure of how to react. Jasper's lips touched his. It wasn't like how he had expected a kiss to be. Actually he wasn't sure exactly how he viewed his first kiss to feel like. All he knew was that he kind of liked it. He loved it, and, he supposed, he loved Jasper. 

I guess you could say the two of them were sort of a secret couple for the rest of their time at camp. Nobody knew except for Sherlock, but that's because he kept walking into the most awkward of situations. 

Mycroft remembered how the two of them used to sneak out of the cabin at night while the others were sleeping, and they'd lie out under the stars for awhile and just talk. Sometimes it'd be about them. Sometimes just about random things. Why the sky is blue for example.

Sometimes he'd climb out of his bunk and slip in next to Jasper in the middle of the night and snuggle up close to him so he could hear his soft breathing in his ears. He'd stay like that until Sherlock would wake up and glare at him, sending him back to his own bunk like a child being sent to a time-out. But he never went back to sleep because he could never stop smiling at Jasper. And Jasper couldn't stop smiling at him.

One of the things Mycroft distinctly remembered was when the two of them used to shower together. They'd get up early before the other boys woke up and climb in. Myc liked showering with him because it made him feel a whole lot less self-conscious about his body. He loved him for who he was, and that was something Mycroft had never felt before. 

For the most part, the two of them would shower in their previous night's underwear because they weren't the scandalous type. Although Jasper had allowed Mycroft's hands to help wash his back, and sometimes his fingers would accidentally brush against his bottom, causing him to throw back his hand from embarrassment. But Jasper would never care. Eventually they did end up taking a shower naked together. Mycroft was extra careful with his hands as to not touch something he shouldn't, but Jasper soon stopped accepting his apologies and encouraged him. That was the first time he had felt someone press up against him. It was warm and wet, and he felt Jasper kiss his neck.

Camp left as soon as it came, and Mycroft couldn't force himself to leave. For once he did have fun at camp. More than fun. And leaving meant he wouldn't ever get to see Jasper again. His father was being transferred back to America which meant Jasper had to go with him. This was the last chance he'd get to see him. 

The night before camp ended, the two of them slept out on the dock. They had been eaten alive by bugs, and the counselors were not too pleased to find them there in the morning, but it was worth it. They had talked half-way through the night, and Mycroft would cuddle as close as he could to Jasper's body. The other boy had opened up so many new pathways for him. So many new feelings, thoughts, and ideas. He didn't want it to go away. 

Neither of their parents had found out about the relationship. Mycroft was a little worried that Sherlock would blab his mouth, but he had shown no interest in the matter.

He and Jasper kept in touch for awhile. They wrote letters which took awhile to reach the other because of mail overseas, but Mycroft still looked forward to each one and waited at the mailbox every day. This went on for a few months, but soon they stopped coming. 

He never heard what happened to him. Perhaps the other boy had moved on. But Myc never did.)

Mycroft still had some of those letters stashed into one of the drawers of his desk. He had brought them to work and found himself looking at them a lot more lately. Sometimes he wondered why he kept them for so many years. 

Reading the conversations he had with Jasper reminded him of Greg. The two hadn't spoken since that night, and the only information he could gather about him came through Sherlock. So far there was nothing except several reported occurrences of him being found on the floor of his apartment-hungover beyond belief. Mycroft felt like a jerk for what happened, and he felt guilty because that was probably the reason Greg had started drinking. There was a difference between Friday nights with a date and being an alcoholic. Greg was starting to lean more towards that side of the spectrum, it seemed.

His phone stared up at him from the corner of his desk and invited him to open up a text message. It'd be so easy just to check up on Greg- his number was on speed dial. Now that he thought about it, that could've been a red flag a long time ago. He never deleted Greg's phone number. Probably because he figured he'd still need his help with Sherlock. But any sane mind would know that Greg wasn't going to be his bitch anymore. But that was never really how he viewed him. He was grateful for Greg's help. If only Greg would've known that. 

He wanted to see him. He hated to admit it, but he missed him terribly. 

Anthea entered his office to bring him the cup of tea he had asked for. He thanked her and set the tea down without taking a sip. 

"You alright, sir?" She asked.

"I'm fine." 

The screen of his phone lit up. It was Sherlock.


	8. I Need Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is living through hell without Mycroft. Painful memories from his past keep haunting him at night, and he knows he needs help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't particularly like this chapter. It makes me sad, and I think I've made Greg suffer a lot "off screen." He's so messed up right now, and I hate writing about it. Why am I doing this to myself? Anyway, don't worry, they'll be back together again soon.

(Frat parties usually weren't Greg's thing. They were loud, obnoxious, and people were always making out in every corner. Even the bathroom-if you had to piss, you might as well go outside. Plus, everybody was pretty much drunk by the end of the night.

Greg had just turned 21, so he was legal to drink, but he had a nagging fear of touching any sort of alcohol as a result of his uncle dying in a car accident from being drunk the year previous. And it didn't help that all of his friends kept shoving bottles of beer in his face.

"Come on, Greg!" They'd persist, "Just one sip."

"No, I'm fine," he'd say and retreat to the nearest corner of the room where a couple was not on the verge of fucking. 

Honestly parties weren't Greg's thing, period. The only reason he had been there to begin with was because his girlfriend and her friends were invited by some of the guys, and she felt more comfortable having him around. At the time he understood, but she pretty much ditched him as soon as the party started, so his reason for being there seemed to be confusing him even more as the night went on.

One of the seniors approached him and kept trying to get him to try a glass of the Scotch some new arrivals brought with them. Greg had never met this boy before, but he knew that seniors weren't too keen on being disobeyed. Although Greg was a junior and not a freshman or sophomore, he still felt obligated to follow this rule.

"Come on," the senior said. 

Greg took the Scotch. It burned his throat as it went down, and he felt himself gagging from the bitter flavor. Why did people like this stuff? The senior boy patted him on the back, and Greg nearly had a coughing attack. 

"There ya go," the senior boy laughed. "Have another."

"Uh, I'm not really a drinker," Greg tried to get himself out of it because, although he'd feel rude if he didn't, he didn't think he could handle taking another sip of the vile liquid. 

"So what?" the senior said, "Come on, it's a party. We're all doing it. Live a little, why don't ya?"

Greg hesitated, but brought the glass back up to his lips. A few drops touched his tongue, and it stung.

"Just toss it back," the senior said.

Greg did, and suddenly he felt a surge of adrenaline through his body. He blinked repeatedly.

"It's good, isn't it?" The senior chuckled. "I'm Jake by the way."

"Greg."

"Nice to meet ya, Greg. Haven't seen you around here before. Are you a freshman?"

"Junior."

"Well fuck, man. Where ya been the past three years? I never see you at any of these things."

"I'm not really a party person," Greg mumbled.

"Well, we're going to have to fix that, aren't we? Come on," he grabbed Greg's hand and pulled him to a table towards the back of the room where people were drinking shots.

Greg looked around the room, attempting to find Hannah. Maybe she would be willing to leave if he told her that he was feeling uncomfortable. But he found her kissing another boy in the corner of the room. His hand was already under her shirt. So much for that. 

He turned to Jake who had already drunk several of the shots. He seemed to be getting a little loopy.

"Are you ok, Jake?" He asked the boy.

"I'm fine. Great!" but Greg knew he wasn't.

"Let's play spin the bottle!" one of the boys suggested.

Groups of both boys and girls flocked to the table, pulling him in with them.

"Come on, Greg," a drunken Hannah demanded.

"I'm not...I think I should go," he tried to remove himself from her grip, but she held on tighter to his arm.

"One game," she said.

He supposed he didn't have a choice.

The bottle began to spin. Kiss after kiss. So far it hadn't landed on Greg which was a relief to him. He hated the game because most of these people were drunk, and they'd all probably end up going home with whoever they had to kiss. And with each spin, he kept getting more anxious for it to pass him. But then it was Jake's turn, and he was the lucky winner. 

Greg had never kissed a boy before. It wasn't any different from a girl really, but there was something strange about it. The kiss itself was fine, but he felt weird in his stomach. Was it guilt? No, probably not. After all it was just a game, and Hannah had her breasts pressed up to some other guy all night anyway. Maybe it was embarrassment? It could be considering he was kissing another person in front of a bunch of other people with everyone screaming "more and more" at him. What more could they want? He was already pretty much snogging him. Did they want to see his dick or something?

Jake pressed closer to him, and he felt his heart speed up. He tried gasping for air, but Jake captured his lips again. By this point he realized he wasn't going to escape, and besides, it was starting to feel good. Suddenly Greg closed his eyes and Jake's hand slipped lower. "More more!" The crowd cheered. 

It really wasn't how Greg expected the night to end. The door to his dorm room burst open, and Jake carried him inside, still kissing every inch of him that he could reach. The two of them fell over onto Greg's bed. His roommate had crashed somewhere for the night, so they were alone. This was a good thing because Greg knew where this was going. 

"You're so hot," Jake breathed in his ear. "I've never fucked a guy before."

"Me neither," Greg said and licked the side of Jake's ear. 

Jake unbuttoned Greg's pants and slipped them down. Greg's penis was hard, but as Jake pulled at his underwear, he started to resist.

"No," he said. "I can't."

"Why?"

"It's not right. I just met you."

"Haven't you ever heard of a one-night stand?"

"But...oh god," Jake squeezed him. 

"Still going to hold back?" he grinned and kissed him. "Cause I don't think you'll be able to."

He slipped Greg's shirt over his head and began to run his tongue over his chest. 

"Ack," he watched Jake take off his boxers and he felt himself ease out of his own.

Greg wasn't a virgin, but this was so different from anything he had experienced before. Girls were so much gentler. Jake was so forceful. It hurt. The thrusting. He had already cum on top of Greg, and both of them were covered in sweat. It was all so wrong.) 

Greg rubbed his head. It wasn't like him to sleep in so late, but he should've expected it after getting so hammered that night. Why did he keep going back to the bar when he kept waking up, feeling like crap? Maybe he figured one day he wouldn't wake up. He kinda wished he wouldn't.

Greg hadn't spoken to Mycroft in months, and he wasn't so sure what to do with his life anymore. The alcohol was sort of just a shield for all the shit. He actually tried calling him once, but he never answered. Maybe breaking up was best for Mycroft, but not for Greg. It was probably the worst thing that could've happened actually. 

The worst part about it, for sure, had to be the flashbacks. Every night when he passed out, he kept reliving his worst fuckups. So many things had gone wrong in his life. So many. And did Greg feel guilty as hell? Yes. But he had repressed those memories. So why the hell were they back? 

He kept seeing Angie too. She kept telling him not to pick up the can, but then Jake would appear and talk him into it. And then Greg would find himself reaching for someone, and his hands would just pass through the air while he plunged into darkness. 

Donovan had held an intervention, and Greg was finally realizing he needed help. God, did he need help. 

Mycroft. 

"I miss you," he'd whisper occasionally to the air. "Please, help me."

But nothing. There was nobody there. Nobody except Jake. 

"Come on. Take a sip."

"Drink."

"Live a little."

His phone rang, but he was too dizzy to stand up. In fact he leaned forward and threw up. 

"Lestrade," it was Sherlock's voice on the answering machine. "Bakerstreet, if convenient."

Ugh.


	9. Reunited: What are you afraid of?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg talk for the first time in months. Not much is said, but still so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting there, guys. I can't hold it out much longer.

Mycroft would be lying if he said he wasn't at least half-way delighted to see Lestrade sitting on Sherlock's couch that afternoon when he walked into 221B. Half-way delighted.....overjoyed is closer, but still not far enough up there. Ecstatic probably is the best word. His heart was beating rapidly. He knew he couldn't show it though.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft greeted hesitantly, "Surprise to find you here."

"Afternoon, sir," was Greg's solemn response.

"It's nice to see you," Myc sat down in the chair opposite him and tried his best not to look him in the eyes when he was speaking. "It's been awhile." 

Greg said nothing. 

"So," Myc bit his lip, "How are you?" 

"Fine."

"What have you been doing?"

He just shrugged as to say he hadn't been doing anything. Mycroft sighed. This was not what he wanted. But what was he expecting really? A warm welcome? A hug? Hell, he was lucky Greg was even speaking to him. If you called that talking.

"Can we not do this here? Sherlock's standing in the doorway," Greg mumbled.

Mycroft looked up and Sherlock, sure enough, had been standing there the whole time. Figures.

"Afternoon," he acknowledged him, rudely.

Sherlock addressed why he called for the two of them to be there, but he didn't need to explain it in any further detail. Both Myc and Greg knew why they were there, and neither of them planned on fulfilling Sherlock's little study on romantic attractions. It didn't please the young man to say the least, but Mycroft didn't care and suggested they'd just leave. This was no concern of Sherlock's, and, honestly, he did want to talk to Greg. And he wanted to do it without his idiotic brother spying on him the whole time. Although bringing the two of them together was probably the nicest thing his brother had ever done. He'd give him that. Assuming he didn't have alternative motives which he probably did.

Greg was quiet for the most part as the two of them walked through the park together. He listened to everything Mycroft said, but he'd only respond with a series of nods and sighs.

"What's wrong?" Myc asked, "I'm not boring you, am I?"

Greg didn't know what to say. He didn't want to mention the alcohol, but that was pretty much the summary of his life the past few months. Here Mycroft was, living life as usual and succeeding as he always does, and Greg was stuck drowning himself in booze. It bothered him honestly. It seemed like the "breakup" didn't affect the other man at all. Maybe he really didn't feel anything for him. Spur of the moment romance. And alcohol-inspired. Same as most of the things Greg did these days, but he couldn't tell Mycroft that. But he felt guilty because his own problems were making him seem disinterested in the other man which was far from true. In fact he could stand there forever and listen to Mycroft's stories because he just loved the sound of his voice. The voice he had been dreaming of hearing again. 

"No," he said quickly, "I'm happy to catch up. I'm just tired." 

"Oh," Mycroft bit his lip.

He was really hoping he would've gotten a word out of Greg by this point. He was running out of office shit to recap, and he really wanted to know what was going on with him. Sherlock told him about the alcohol, but he didn't want to mention such a personal subject. Especially given what they were trying to accomplish. Things were already off to a bad start. The first words spoken were to address the accusation that Greg wasn't listening to Myc's stories. Crap, that's not what he wanted at all. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. That's self-centered. Which I am," he chuckled a little but Greg was not particularly amused, "So, we got a little interrupted before. How are things for you?"

"Oh, you know. I've been drinking my self to Candyland and back. Collapsing on the floor and being found hungover every morning by my associate officers, Donovan, or anyone really. I can't go two seconds at home without hallucinating about my ex-wife talking to me or being fucked in all senses by a college memory. I think about you sometimes. Ya know, before I black out, and then all there is...is darkness. God, do I think about you. Every second of every day. I miss you. You keep me right. I think of how desperate I must look to you. Here I am, begging for you because I need you. But you don't need me. Hell, that's why this whole thing happened. You don't love me. You used me for sex. Physical pleasure. Loneliness does that to a person. And then you dumped me. Trash. And the worst part is, you don't even think of me as trash. I don't know what I am to you. And now I'm paying the price for my ignorance. Pity me. Pity Gregory Lestrade," Greg scrolled through his thoughts, but nothing he was thinking could be expressed without Mycroft being bombarded by formally compressed feelings. 

"Sherlock been involved in a thing lately?" Mycroft asked, but regretted the words as soon as they came out. "I mean, has he been bothering you?"

"Not really," Greg said, "Not for several months now. Unless I was unaware of it. Of course you would know."

"Not necessarily. Sherlock and I don't really talk. Sibling rivalry and all that."

But it had been a lot different lately. He'd actually been visiting his brother a lot more these past few weeks. "Impromptu drop ins" as he called them, but he really just wanted to pry information about the D.I. from Sherlock. But all he'd ever do was create images of Lestrade having wet dreams about him while he was drunk off his ass. It hurt Myc a little to hear Greg talked about that way, and it set his concern for the other man's health. If he really was drinking as much as Sherlock said, that really wasn't good. He should definitely consider talking to a psychologist about that. But the problem was, Mycroft couldn't help but think that it was his fault.

Greg watched Mycroft as they walked. He was just as handsome as usual except that his hair was slipped back that day. He always hated it when he did that because he couldn't run his fingers through his hair. So soft. No. He shook his head.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked.

"Nothing."

Silence.

Mycroft led them to a bench and sat down. This was going nowhere. He had been thinking ever since they left Sherlock's flat, and he knew he had to bring it back up. That night. Everything he had said had some truth to it, but he had had time to reflect. He said he didn't love Greg, but that wasn't true. He did. The problem was what was holding him back. Even after months of reflection, he was still confused. He was afraid. He knew what he wanted, but he didn't know how to get it. And then there was how Greg felt to consider.

Greg sat done next to him. He hesitated, but Myc placed his hand gently on top of his. Surprisingly Greg's tension actually eased a little bit which was the opposite of what Myc was expecting. 

"So, I was trying to avoid this, but obviously that isn't an option," he took a deep breath, "I like you, alright."

"I know," Greg said, "But you don't love me."

"But I do."

"You do?" 

"Yea...I love you..." Myc's voice trailed off because he had never said those words out loud before.

"But," Greg tried to say something as he pulled his hand away, but Myc grabbed it back and wouldn't let him.

"I know. I know," he said, "I was...." He hesitated,

"Afraid of falling in love because I feel so insecure about myself and my body, and nobody could fucking love me. I'm a lonely leaf drifting through the air, separated from the rest of the leaves in the pile. A worthless piece of crap. I sit at home at night and think about how people treated me as a kid, and I cry because that is my image of people. My brother is a sociopath, and I thought I was too. I shut myself out from the rest of the world because I don't want to be hurt anymore. But the truth is, I can't bear to do that anymore....because I have you. I don't want to block you. I love you. Gosh, I can't even describe it. I feel empty without you. That lock on my heart is still there, and I don't know where the key is. And, even if I did, am I really capable of opening it? All those memories. All those scars. They will be out in the open again. I don't know if I can, Greg. I don't know. So many tears just streaming down my face every time I close my eyes. But I know I have you. You have to help me Greg, I'm a mess," so many words, and none he could actually say.

"What?" Greg asked.

Myc sighed.

"I was an idiot. I didn't know what I wanted. It's because....no."

"Huh?"

"Nothing," Myc said, "I just didn't know. So many things. Work. Sherlock. Society. It had nothing to do with you. I was unstable. I used you because I was pathetic. Ya...I used you. I was stupid. Ignorant. But that's over. I know what I want now. And I want....you," he looked away because he was actually blushing.

"You do?" Greg felt like an idiot for saying that because it was obvious, but he didn't know how to process it. 

"Of course I do, stupid," Myc didn't mean it in an insulting way, but Greg seemed to take it that way-it was the tone. "I'm sorry," he softened his voice, "Of course I do."

"But...I..." he thought about the alcohol.

Alcohol. That was the exact opposite of a catalyst for a healthy relationship. He was addicted-he knew that. But he felt horrible enough as it is. What if he did something really stupid to ruin things for good? 

"Well?" Mycroft asked.

"I can't."

"What?"

"I'm afraid," Greg shot up and started to walk away.

Myc ran after him. 

"Let go of me," Greg said when Myc caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder.

"No," Myc said firmly, "Why are you afraid?"

"What does Greg have to be afraid of?" Myc thought. "It is me who is insecure. What can Greg possibly be afraid of?"

"It doesn't matter," he shrugged Myc's hand off him. "I gotta go. Donovan texted me earlier, and I have to go down to the station."

"Wait!" Myc called. 

Greg did.

"What are you afraid of?"

The other man hesitated.

"Tell me."

"Myself."

And he walked off.

"Wait, Greg!" 

There was no use really. But what did he mean he was afraid of himself? Was it the alcohol? His past? What? 

Once Greg had passed around the corner so that Myc couldn't see him, he ran to the nearest public restroom in a chips shop and collapsed to his knees. 

"I'm so stupid!" He shouted, and he didn't care who heard. 

His head hurt like hell and felt like it was burning. He had a bottle of aspirin in his pocket, but he didn't pull it out. He wanted to feel it. He wanted the shock it gave him. The jolt. It made him realize how stupid he had been. He had given up his opportunity to make this all end. 

Why did he do that?


	10. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of just a filler to lead up to a major conversation between Greg and Myc that is coming up soon. But, for now, Greg just left, and Myc calls in John to talk about how he feels because he doesn't know what to do. John has a hard time believing that Mycroft has a heart.

Mycroft watched Greg as he left, and he felt himself wondering how to respond. He stood there like an idiot without bothering to run after him because he knew it would be of no use. Besides he could never catch up. 

This was definitely not what he wanted at all. What did he wanted? He supposed he wanted Greg to hold him and tell him that everything would be alright. He wanted to kiss him and feel the warm of his breath down his neck. He wanted to tell him everything. Not all that bullshit. He honestly wanted to tell him all about the insecurities and Juliane Hamilton. About summer camp and Jasper Clemmons. His and Sherlock's childhood. His whole life. And he wanted somebody to listen. He didn't want sex. He just wanted another person to be close to him. That's what he wanted. But was that really what he expected? No. 

For awhile he just walked around the park alone, wondering what to do with himself. Thoughts of returning to Sherlock's flat crossed his mind, but he decided otherwise. And actually he ended up pulling out his phone and searching through his contacts until he found John. 

"I need to talk to you," he said into the voicemail. "It's important." 

John met up with him later after receiving the message in the exact same spot at the park. He seemed a little confused-why wouldn't he be? Mycroft had never called him for any other reason except Sherlock, so that was what he was expecting. He couldn't have been more wrong. 

"So, what did Sherlock do this time?" he asked.

"Nothing," Myc said, "And that's not what I wanted to talk about."

"Oh, really?"

"It's sort of a personal affair," Mycroft mumbled.

John stuck his finger in his ear and wiggled it around to make sure his ear wasn't clogged because he wasn't certain he heard what he thought he just heard. Mycroft Holmes called him to ask for advice? 

"Excuse me?" He asked, "Mycroft Holmes is coming to me for a PERSONAL issue?"

"Don't make this into a big deal," Mycroft whispered, " It's a last resort. And besides, it's not like I can go to Sherlock." 

"No, no. I didn't mean anything," John said, "It's just that I didn't know you had personal problems is all. I didn't know you felt." 

"We're all human, John."

"Ha, sometimes I'm not so certain about that. For awhile I thought Sherlock was made of stone. And you...well let's not go there," he was laughing slightly, but Myc wasn't in the mood.

"If you aren't going to take this seriously, I'll go to someone else."

"Who else would you go to?"

"Doesn't matter. I just thought that you wouldn't tell anyone." 

"I won't."

"Especially Sherlock."

"Right, I'm sorry," he waited.

Mycroft contemplated a way to say what he had to say lightly. It wasn't like it was something he normally talked about with people, and he wasn't even sure he could find the right words. After all he had never been in love before, and he didn't know how to deal with the rejection. But the worst of it all is that he wasn't even sure if it was a real rejection. It couldn't have been. But he knew that Greg needed help, and Mycroft wasn't sure how to give it to him. 

In addition John had flat out said he was heartless-how the hell was he supposed to say that he was in love with Greg? He took in a deep breath and let it out.

"I like someone," he muttered.

"Wait, what?"

Myc honestly thought it was harder for John to process the information than it was for himself to say it. It was more than shock on his face-more of disbelief. He didn't believe a word of it.

"You're shitting me," he said.

"I'm not."

"Really though?" John was grinning. "Mycroft Holmes likes someone?!"

"Lower your voice."

"Who? Seriously tell me, who."

Myc hesitated. 

"Greg."

"Lestrade?!"

He nodded solemnly. 

Explaining himself was a challenge to say the least. He had never told any of those things to anyone, and, to be honest, he wasn't even sure why he was telling John. Perhaps he just needed to let it go. After all it had been bottled up for awhile. Although he was regretting it more and more with each word that left his lips.

"You like Greg?" John was still saying it out loud because he didn't want to believe it. 

"I don't like him," Mycroft grumbled, "I think I'm in love with him."

"Holy shit," John was laughing. "Mycroft Holmes? I would never have...does Sherlock know?"

"Probably," Mycroft looked away. "Innuendos. He likes to mock me nonchalantly and see if I notice. I'm not as naive as he believes."

"So that's why Lestrade has been so depressed lately," John said, "So where did he go?" 

"I don't know," Myc said, "I'm worried."

"And what did he say before he left again?"

"That he was afraid of himself."

"Well I knew Greg had a problem with alcohol. Maybe that's why he's scared. Maybe he's afraid it'll cloud his judgement, and he'll do something he'll regret."

"Maybe. But I could help him with that. He can't do this by himself."

"Well maybe he thinks he can," John said, "He's probably ashamed and doesn't want your help."

"Who cares what he wants, he bloody needs it." 

"It's a thing called pride, Mycroft," John said, "Sometimes people need to fight their own demons."

"He looked so upset though," Myc said softly, "He honestly looked scared. I wanted to run after him. 

"Then why didn't you?"

Myc froze. 

"I really don't know..."

"Look, I don't know what to tell you," John said, and he stood up, "but I would go talk to him."

"But he doesn't want to talk to me."

"Like you just said, it doesn't matter what Greg wants. If he's really in need of help as badly as you say he is, then go after him." 

"I have no idea where he would go," Mycroft said. "And what if he goes off and does something stupid?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Drink himself to infinity. Try to hurt himself. I don't know, John. But I'm really worried about him. He's not stable, I can tell." 

"Well then start anywhere. Ask people if they've seen him. You'll have to find him before he can do anything. We'll just have to hope he's smart enough not to." 

"What am I supposed to do when I find him? He walked away from me for a reason."

"Did you say something to make him walk away?"

"I just wanted to tell him that I liked him. I thought maybe he'd want to actually get together like he originally wanted. I thought it would make him feel better because it'd do so for me."

"That's you though. And maybe he walked away because you were acting as a boyfriend, but the truth is, Mycroft, I don't think that's what he needs right now."

"So you're saying he doesn't want to be with me?"

"No, I think he does. But, like you say, he's scared. And I think he needs a friend more than a relationship right now."

It was true even thought Myc hated to admit it.

"You're right. I feel like an idiot," Myc said, "I just wanted things to be ok. I didn't even think about how he'd feel about the matter. And I never told him the full truth about myself either."

"Well, then you've got to let him know he's not alone. Tell him how you feel. Emphasize with him. And you better find him before something bad happens."

"You're right."

Mycroft stood up as well and thanked John for his help.

"Do you think you could help look for him?" He asked.

John agreed. 

"Thank you, John," Mycroft said. "And, please, don't tell my brother."

"But you said he knew. And maybe he could help."

"He probably does, but that doesn't change anything."

"Ok, I won't, but Mycroft?"

"Yea?"

"Do you really like him? It's not funny. You could end up hurting him even more if you don't. This doesn't have anything to do with Sherlock, does it?"

Mycroft glared at him. This wasn't the moment to be questioning him after all that. He was actually starting to wonder if John cared at all.

"Why would I do that? I'm not heartless, John. Did you really think I lied about all that? Why the hell would I do that? And if I was out to hurt him, I'd just let him go. But I'm desperate to find him."

"It's just a hard thing to process," John said.

"I don't care. It's true. Everything I told you. And you can either accept it or not," Mycroft growled, "but we have to find Greg. You said you'd help. Now come on."

John smiled a little. Mycroft was a lot different than he thought. Greg needed someone like that.


	11. Being Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myc talks to Greg

Hours. They searched for hours, and neither of them had the slightest idea where Greg had gone. By this point Mycroft had pretty much given up. It was obvious that the man didn't want to be found, but that just made Myc feel even more guilty for giving up because he knew that he needed his support. 

"Dial #7 D.I. Gregory Lestrade" he spoke into his phone.

The name projected before him on his screen as he attempted yet another call. He sighed when he realized he never bothered to change the name to Greg....or perhaps Gregory. Gregory was cuter. 

"Oy, this is Greg. Er, sorry, I'm not certain how to use this new mobile yet. Bloody technology. Apologies, but I'm not here right now. Leave a message and I'll get back to you....haha how do I turn this thing off? Oh..." ten missed calls.

"For god's sake, Gregory," Mycroft stuffed his phone back into his pocket, "Why won't you answer your damn phone?"

"No luck?" John walked up behind him.

"None," Myc sighed, "You might as well go home, John. It's been hours. He obviously doesn't want people around him right now. Best just to give up."

"But what if he does something?" John asked, "Isn't that what you were so worried about?"

"He has good judgment," Myc mumbled.

"You sure?"

"Ay, he rejected me, didn't he?" Mycroft had tried to make a joke, but the effect of it just made himself feel horrible and John sympathetic. 

John patted him on the back and left him alone. 

-

It was pretty much just like any other night at Mycroft's house. Lonely. Pathetic. Full of guilt. Only that day was even higher on the guilt scale. He slumped down in his arm chair and stared at a framed newspaper article with Lestrade's face on it. The photograph had been taken awhile back, and he had stashed it away in a drawer somewhere. He had found it a few weeks ago when he was searching for his tie and decided to frame it. He wasn't so sure as to why. He must've been feeling lonely. 

His eyes were drooping, and he dozed off for awhile. Not long because the doorbell soon caused him to stir, and he was forced to open his eyes. 

"Greg?" he rubbed his eyes.

His vision was blurred at first, and he saw nothing but a figure of a man in the doorway when he opened the door. He rubbed at his eyes some more until it cleared. It definitely was Greg.

So many things swirled through his mind, but he couldn't figure out what to say to him. Maybe, where the hell have you been? I've been looking for you all day? Have you been drinking again? Why are you here? You fucking ran off on me. Why did you do that? But he didn't look very good, and Myc decided against interrogating him. 

"This is a surprise, come in," he moved aside for the other man, but Greg would not move. "What's wrong?"

He didn't say anything, but quickly leaned forward to kiss Mycroft on the lips. Mycroft struggled at first before welcoming it, but he was still very confused.

"What the?" He was going to say something, but Greg had the floor.

His eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks were wet like he had been crying just recently. Myc looked down at his hands which were all cut up and blood was spewing-the bottom of Greg's shirt had been stained. 

"Greg, for god's sake, what happened?!" 

Greg ignored the question and, instead, confessed that he was an alcoholic before breaking down with more tears.

"What?"

"You have to help me," he held up his hands.

"Seriously? How did this happen?" Mycroft asked, ignoring the alcoholic confession for a moment.

"I was trying to stop, and I slammed my hands down on the ground. The bottle smashed," he said.

"But why is there so much blood?"

"I purposely sliced my hands," he muttered.

"Why the fuck would you do that?!"

"It felt good," his words began to muffle due to the tears, but Myc was able to make it out (the words were like a stab to his chest).

Myc let him inside and set him down on the couch where he wrapped some gauze around his bleeding hands. "Greg, you're a mess. What is going on? What do you mean you're an alcoholic? I didn't even know you drank." (That last part was a lie, but he spared Greg of that.) 

The other man just shook his head. 

"Tell me. I've been looking for you all day. Just please, talk to me. Dammit, Gregory." 

"It kept calling me," he sniffled, "I tried, Myc, really I did."

"Shh, Shh," he put his arm around Greg's shoulder.

"I just want it to stop!" He cried.

"Talk to me."

Greg explained what had happened to him the past few months. About the depression. The loneliness. The yearning. He even mentioned college and Angie because he figured he had nothing else to lose. The more he said, the more he feared Mycroft was going to judge, but Myc said nothing until he had finished. And even then it was very little.

"I want to help," was all he said-no judging, no questions. "Please." 

"How?" Greg blurted.

Myc fell silent. That really wasn't something he had ever considered. How was he supposed to help him? Especially since the problem seemed to be even more severe than he had originally anticipated. And Greg had never mentioned his wife before. That was really bad. He was actually seeing her. Mycroft had had a lot of vivid memories these past few months, but he had never hallucinated situations before, let alone full conversations daily. Geez, Greg was a wreck. He felt so guilty for making him feel that way. But he had been alone too, and his story wasn't exactly paradise either.

"I think I miss her," Greg said, "You remind me of her. The way she was before things went wrong," his voice trailed off.

"You know," Mycroft told him, "I know what it's like to be alone."

Greg said nothing. Myc took in a deep breath because he knew the only way to truly connect with Greg right now was to admit the truth.

"Feeling inferior to everyone else," he said, "Feeling like the needs of others always have to be put in front of your own personal needs, feeling lonely, feeling pressured to do things you don't want to do, having a responsibility that is near impossible to keep up, yearning for a normal life," he looked away, "We're not normal, Greg.....You know that."

"I know," Greg murmured.

"But that doesn't make us inferior to everyone else. You don't have to be afraid of anything or anyone. You shouldn't compare yourself to people. It just makes you feel worse. I should know."

Greg didn't say anything, but looked at him as if he was skeptical.

"It's true," Myc said, and he explained-Greg said nothing.

"I'm sorry I turned you away, Greg," Myc continued, "It was an idiotic decision, and, by far, one of the things I most regret. I never thought about how it would affect you."

He put his hand on Greg's thigh and squeezed sympathetically.

"When I was a kid I used to sit alone while the other kids played. I envied their happiness and wondered what it was about me that repelled them. Was it my intelligence? Maybe it was the way I dressed? My weight? God, I cannot even describe the insecurity from the weight," Greg interrupted him.

"You're perfect," he said, and Myc smiled.

"The closest friend I ever had, I ended up falling in love with, and he blew away with the wind. I haven't thought about Jasper in years, but meeting you reminded me of him. You have the same care-free personality. High spirits. Kind and caring. You cared about me even when you thought I didn't care back. And you're cute if that counts for anything," Greg had smiled at that last part.

This was going to get real personal really fast, so Myc squeezed Greg's thigh again and took in another breath.

"Greg, I had sex with you because I was trying to fill a void in my own life. At the time I wasn't sure what it was. All I knew is that I was missing something, and, for a brief moment in time, you made me feel whole. It wasn't until you weren't there anymore did I truly realized it wasn't an illusion. You are that missing puzzle piece," Mycroft said and he addressed Greg's problem again, his tone stiffening. "But you're just wasting yourself away, Greg. I know what it's like to feel like you're falling through an endless tunnel of darkness, desperately searching for the light at the bottom....but the drinking isn't going to make that any better."

Greg didn't look at him.

"Why do you keeping drinking?" Mycroft asked, "You know how horrible it makes you feel."

The other man hesitated and sniffled.

"Have you ever stepped into a shower and turned it on when you are feeling hopeless and depressed?" He asked.

Myc nodded, but didn't say anything because he figured the other man would explain the relevance. 

"The water sprays over you and freezes your body because it is contracting with the hot and stickiness of your skin. At first it feels like millions of pins being hammered into you, and you want to scream and turn it off. But then the water starts to not feel as cold anymore, and it brings a cooling sensation to your body. All of a sudden there is no more pain and your brain is just transported somewhere else. Your eyes just close as if by instinct , and suddenly you are there-somewhere. A beach. A lake house. The moon. I've always wanted to go to the moon. And as you are lying out on the beach or boating at the lake or-haha- jumping across the rocky surface of a celestial body in a big, bulky suit....everything happening around you before you stepped into this fantasy is automatically gone-vanished like it never even happen or wasn't happening right now. That's what it's like. I take a sip, and it goes away. It wasn't just you. I've always felt this way. I always feel like I'm disappointing people. I always feel like other people know something I don't. I have so many stupid decisions that haunt me when I fall asleep every night. So many things I regret. And there is nothing I can do about it. When I step out of this "shower" it all comes back, so I just step back in. Another drink, I tell myself. One more and it'll be gone. Back to the beach, let's go boating again, one more small step for mankind. And no matter how prune-like my skin gets, I just remain in the shower because I don't want to face reality anymore. I don't know how to face my own demons, so I don't." 

Mycroft listened intently to Greg's explanation. Although he couldn't pinpoint any specific events, he could relate with how Greg was feeling-the desire to block out everything bad that had happened or was occurring in his life. It's so easy to just wipe it out, but it's only temporary...only temporary.

"I feel responsible for this," Myc said.

"It's not you," Greg said, "It's me. I don't know what to do, Myc. I guess the only reason I was so desperate for a relationship, even though I wasn't ready, is because I wanted someone to distract me. It was selfish. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Mycroft said sternly, " This isn't a sorry fest. I want to help you, but you have to tell me how."

Greg was silent, but he snuggled up close to Mycroft. Myc was still wanting an answer, but the best he could do, he supposed, was just to hug him back and let him know everything was ok. Because, right now, that was the thing they both needed. The warmth of another person, and the beating of a second heart against their own.


	12. I Think I'm in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night continues, and more is said between the two of them, including some words neither thought they'd ever say again.

Greg spent the remainder of the night in Myc's arms as he explained the content of his depression in greater detail. Myc listened intently, his heart breaking with each new piece of information that left Greg's lips. He did his best to share his own experiences, but, to be honest, he didn't give a fuck about himself right then. 

Mycroft had never hugged another person for this long before. He was never fond of hugs for one, and nobody was fond enough of him to even bother to hug him longer than a few seconds anyway. It felt good. It felt warm. 

It was so much different than the other interactions Myc had had with Greg. There was no kissing-well besides the one they shared when Greg arrived. There was no sexual actions whatsoever. It was just Myc holding Greg in his arms, and stroking his hair. It was so soft.

This was all new to Mycroft, and he didn't really know what else to do than to just follow Greg. His heart kept beating loudly in his chest the whole time, and Greg didn't even seem to notice, or he didn't care. 

"I'm sorry," Greg had whispered sometime during the night. 

Mycroft had been dozing, but his eyes shot open when he heard the soft words.

"Sorry for what?" 

"Everything," Greg muttered, "Leaving. Not telling you. Not bothering to contact you for these past months. Forcing you do deal with all this right now."

"Dealing with what?" Myc shifted a little and looked down at Greg.

"Me."

"Shhh," Myc stroke his hair. "Don't talk like that." 

"Why didn't you call?" Greg asked.

"I don't know," Myc whispered to him, "I don't know." 

"Me neither."

"I've never held a person like this before," Myc said, "It's nice."

"Mycroft?"

"Yea?"

"Can I ask you something?" 

"Anything?"

"Can we go outside first?"

"Why?"

"It's beautiful," Greg whispered, "And we have nothing to hide." 

Mycroft didn't really understand, but he followed him regardless.

It was a little chilly outside on the porch. Myc brought his jacket with him, and the two of them looked up at the moon. It wasn't yet a full moon, but it shined down at them with nearly the same intensity. Mycroft's home was outside the main city, so it wasn't nearly as busy as the neighborhoods around where Greg lived. And the fact that it was close to one in the morning aided the lack of traffic.

It was a lovely evening. 

"So what did you want to ask me?"

"Will you tell me the story about the boy from summer camp again?"

"Jasper?" Myc asked, "Why?"

"Just please." 

Mycroft stared at him. After everything the two of them had been through that night, he wasn't really keen on reliving something he already got out. It was hard enough the first time. Although it meant something to Greg, so what else could he do then to suck it up and tell him? Surprisingly, it was a lot less painful the second time around. It didn't seem so shameful to him anymore. It was just another memory. 

"Alright," Myc whispered. "I was 15 years old, and he was a year my senior. 16, scandalous, I know, but there was just something different about him that was attracting to me. Before Jasper I never really questioned my sexuality. I had had crushes on girls mostly. There might've been times in the swimming pool when I would look at the other boys chests and sometimes a little lower, but I had always thought of it as envying their bodies rather than admiration of them. It was all so surreal to me. The whole idea of sexuality was just scary. Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and freak out because I glanced at Jasper's lips, and wondered what they would taste like. I hadn't been exposed to things like gay, bisexual, or asexual that often, so I didn't know how to determine what I was. I just figured girls were what I was supposed to like. That was what was accepted, and that was the only thing. I felt like I was betraying some sort of law."

"What about Jasper made you feel that way?"

"He was..." He sighed, "Beautiful. His poofy hair and his eyes. Those eyes....I still remember them like Prince Charming. I was the lonely and insecure damsel wandering in the forest, and he was the knight in shining armor. Silly I know, but..."

"No, it isn't," Greg's hand slipped into his- Myc smiled. 

"I wasn't so sure of my feelings, so I didn't say anything or pursue them. But one day Jasper and I were hanging out where we normally did. The two of us were standing in the water, and I pretended to slip. He held me in his arms and looked down at me. I giggled because this was the sort of awkward thing we always did, and I tried to wiggle away from him. He wouldn't let go. I asked him what he was doing, and he leaned forward to kiss me. I had never been kissed before, so I didn't know what it would feel like. It felt...good. I felt like I was a part of him."

"Then what?"

"For the rest of the summer, we were pretty much a secret couple. When he moved away at the end of the season, I was distraught. I didn't know what to do with myself. And the worst part was that nobody even knew about it, so there was nobody to comfort me," he said.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"I was scared."

"Is that why you didn't want to tell anyone about me?"

Myc said nothing.

"Why did you tell me that story?"

"Because you asked."

"No, not now. Earlier."

"Because you were telling me your stories. I had to tell you mine."

"But why did you choose that story? What was so important?"

Myc was going to say something, but fell short. 

"What is it?"

"I..." He bit his lip. "He reminds me of someone."

"Who?"

"You." 

"Myc, I have to tell you something."

"What?"

"I think I may be falling in love."

"You are?"

"Why do I remind you of Jasper, Myc?"

Mycroft said nothing. Greg scooted closer to him and lied his head on his shoulder. 

"Why, Mycroft?"

"Because...." Myc actually found himself laughing," I think I love you too." 

"What's so funny?"

"I never thought I'd say that again," he chuckled.

"Me neither."

Greg smiled. He glanced across the street and could just barely see the image of a woman waving to him. With the light of the street light, he could make out the smile on her face and the pride in her heart could be seen from miles away. There was a warmth in him, and it was like a hand reaching out to her. She remained where she was, but extended her hand back to him.

"Greg," a voice said.

The woman's mouth was moving, but the words felt as if she was right next to him.

"I know," he whispered.

"Huh?"

"Do you ever dream about Jasper?" Greg asked.

"Sometimes. When I feel lonely I guess."

Greg nodded and stared at the woman across the street. She had stepped farther into the light, and he could see her clearly in her purple sweater and her favorite flower skirt. Yellow hoop earrings hung from her ear lobes and reflected the light of the street lamp. Her hair flowed off the edges of her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled. Her teeth shined at him as she smiled. 

"Do you see her?" Myc had noticed his area of focus-an empty section of air near the streetlight across the road from them.

He nodded.

"I guess the side effect hasn't gone away yet." 

"Are you going to miss seeing her?"

"I need to move on," he sighed, "besides, that's just an image. It doesn't exist anymore. That was Angie when we got married. The gazebo. The lake. The music. The hope in our hearts, the fear hidden behind the shadow of temporary happiness. That was so long ago. She's probably married to a new man. She could have kids now. A whole new life. She's happy now."

"And what about you?"

He thought about the question for awhile before squeezing Myc's hand. That was all he needed to do because Mycroft knew.


	13. 3 Months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the wait! I have so much crap to deal with right now, but here is a short little blurb to introduce how things have changed since the last chapter. Our time together is becoming slim from this point, but thanks for following me to the end of this fanfic. It's my first real one, and it is still a little shaky. I appreciate the support.

The lock on the apartment door was jammed...again. Greg fiddled with it for awhile, but, from previous experience, he knew it would be of no use. This was the third time this week that he had come home to a locked house, and he hated just a waiting on the porch until Mycroft got home because he was an expert at lock picking-what do you expect from a man in the British government? Who knows what kind of secret agent shit they teach you in those training courses. How Mycroft even ended up in the position he had was beyond Greg because the more he got to know his boyfriend, the more he questioned how he manages to completely change his personality for the purpose of his job. 

Speaking of Myc's job, Greg was eagerly awaiting the return of his lover to ask of the outcomes from that day's agenda. Before he left this morning, Mycroft had kissed him on the lips and told him face-to-face, looking into Greg's eyes to show he was certain, that he was going to tell the people at the office that day. He had been a little nervous, but he had become a little more comfortable in his own skin these past few months, and he knew it was time. 

Greg had told his fellow officers two weeks prior when the two of them moved in together, and he was happily surprised at how well they took it. Of course they had known him for years, and he guessed he wasn't as opaque as he thought he was. But it didn't affect him much. He just took their accepting nods and smiles as reassurance that he was finally who he was supposed to be, and everyone agreed and wouldn't argue otherwise. To be honest it felt like a huge weight had been lifted. 

Mycroft just needed a little longer to adjust, but Greg didn't mind. 

And as for Sherlock...well John may have blabbed a little when the two of them moved into an apartment together because Sherlock had gone to Myc's house, and he wasn't there. John had merely given him an address, and he picked the wrong time to come barging in...that may have postponed Myc's decision to tell people by a little bit. Needless to say, Greg now checks the whole house before he and Myc go into the shower together, and they always dress while still in the bathroom...

Greg brushed off the step a little so that he wouldn't get so much dirt on his suit and sat down while he waited. The apartment they chose together wasn't very far away from Bakerstreet- Greg figured Myc did that on purpose to keep an eye on his brother. At first he wasn't too keen on it, but it was Myc's decision, and, as long as they were together, it didn't really matter to him. And, although, he missed his old apartment, he was warming up to the new place. It was cozy.

He had been sober for almost a month now. It was very difficult the first two months, and he started going to AA meetings. Mycroft did anything and everything possible to help, and he was very supportive throughout the whole experience.Greg appreciated that greatly.

The side effects still hadn't gone away. He still had nightmares sometimes, and, occasionally, he would still see Angie out of the corner of his eye, although it'd just be her encouraging him to move forward. Sometimes he'd walk past a bar and feel a tingling sensation, but he had trained himself to walk past. Kick the problem in the balls. Push it aside like garbage. It was up to him to fight his own demons, he knew, and the rehabilitation was definitely working.

"Well, you look dashing this afternoon," his spirits lifted when he saw Mycroft walking down the street-he had been walking a lot these days. 

"Flattery will get you no where, inspector," Myc had responded, his face blushing slightly.

Greg grinned. He loved it when Mycroft referred to him by his rank. It made him feel important, and the word was just so sexy coming from Myc's mouth. 

The two of them greeted each other with a peck on the cheek, and Mycroft did the honor of fixing the lock so that they could get inside. He moved aside for his partner because Greg had literally been waiting for hours. 

"I never thought I'd miss this ratty place," Greg laughed.

"Careful what you say Lestrade, I picked that couch," Myc jokingly warned because he knew Greg had been making fun of his style choices. 

"Ya, and I picked the curtains so we're even," he spun around playfully in a circle and kissed the other man again, more passionately this time. 

"You cheeky bastard," Myc whispered.

Greg was satisfied.

"So," the anticipation was rising, "How was work?" 

His smile faded.

"What?" Greg asked, "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," Myc turned away from him and pretended to adjust something on a bookshelf. 

"What is it?"

"You know people," Myc responded and blew off some dust from a bookend. "They aren't educated to deal with such matters." 

"You didn't tell them, did you?" Greg eyed him curiously. "You told me you would! We made that decision together, remember?" 

"I know, I know," Mycroft whined, "I tried. I really did. But as soon as I got everyone's attention, I fell short."

"Myc," Greg groaned, "It's not healthy to hide things. Especially something like this."

"I know," he muttered, "I'm sorry." 

"You'll tell them tomorrow, won't you?" Greg asked.

Myc hesitated.

"Yes."

"Good," Greg kissed him quickly and then disappeared into the bathroom.


	14. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A talk I've been waiting to write

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the wait

"Greg," Myc whispered and reached out to touch his partner. 

Greg was fast asleep, but he stirred a little at the sudden touch of Mycroft's hand. His lips curved into a slight smile, but he did not wake up. 

"Gregory," Myc repeated. 

The other man mumbled something, but it was muffled. Myc shook him a little.

"What?" He rolled over and yawned. "What is it?" 

"I'm going to go for a walk," Myc whispered.

"Mycroft," Greg rubbed his eyes, "It's the middle of the night." 

"I need to think," he kissed his boyfriend's forehead and rolled out of bed.

-

(Mycroft lied in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sherlock was in the bed next to him-er rather under the bed next to him. He was lying on his stomach underneath the bed, mixing chemicals of some sort. That's where he stashed his chemistry set, and he got up at random points in the night to check up on some reaction or another. It was a surprise he didn't burn a hole through the floor. Their mother had taken his set away from him once for doing that at their old house, so he had been more careful since then. Where he got this stuff to begin with, Myc would never know. He had asked Sherlock once, and the younger boy just responded with a shrug. Most likely he had stolen it from the chemistry lab at school-he was known to do that. 

It was the summer after the incident with Jasper, and Myc found himself right back where he used to be-alone. 

He had managed to wiggle his way out of going to camp that year because he told his mother that there was a large amount of an unknown allergen of his that bothered him the year before. She had suggested a shot from a doctor but decided it was not worth the effort. So Myc remained at home for most of the season.

It would be a lie to say that he didn't miss camp. It was actually kind of fun when you had someone to share it with. Sherlock...well he pretty much did his own thing. That's what he pretty much does all the time. He was never around to talk to, and, even if he was, he didn't give a shit. Just looking at him right now was a perfect representation. He was probably busy concocting some kind of toxin to stick in Myc's juice in the morning. It wouldn't be surprising. 

Jasper was much different. He was kind, caring, fun-loving, free-spirited. He didn't treat you like a whisper in the wind. He talked to Mycroft, he hung out with Mycroft. Myc shared things with Jasper that he had never shared with anybody. Jasper was more of a brother than Sherlock has ever been. And most importantly, Jasper loved him. Or at least he thought he did. 

Myc hadn't received a letter from Jasper in quite some time. Perhaps it was just a summer fling after all. And still....

"Sherly" He said into the silence.

There was a loud thump, and Sherlock crawled out from under the bed, rubbing his head and cursing under his breath. He had developed quite a colorful vocabulary during the last school year. 

"I told you not to call me Sherly," he hissed.

"And I told you to stop doing science experiments under your bed. And yet here you are. You should be glad you're so tiny or you'd get your ass stuck under there," Mycroft scolded. "Mother's gonna find your set again and take it away."

"I didn't do anything, Mycroft," he growled.

"The key word you seem to be missing is 'yet'. Something always go wrong with those chemicals of yours, and we end up with acid eating through the hardwood. Why can't you be more careful?"

"I am," was all he said, and he crawled back under.

There was silence for the next few moments before Mycroft spoke again.

"Sherlock?"

No response.

"Do you think there is something wrong with us?" 

His kid brother's head poked out from under the sheets that hung over the side of the bed. 

"If you are referring to not being normal, then yes. There is definitely something "wrong" with us. But that is looking through the eyes of the public, and the public consists of idiots. They don't think, and they don't understand," he said sternly with no sense of hurt to be found in his voice-it was just a plain statement-and he returned to his chemistry set.

Myc lifted his head and pulled out the pillow from underneath him. He shook it and a photograph fell out. He remembered this photo well. He and Jasper had been standing on the dock, and it was Jas getting ready to throw Myc into the lake. The two of them had gotten Sherlock to take it with an old camera that their mother had sent them to camp with. Myc remembered how awkward it had been because Jasper kept giggling and licking his lips and grinning like an idiot. Nothing he was doing made even the slightest bit of sense to anyone else, but Mycroft understood every unspoken word. He figured Sherlock did too because he kept rolling his eyes at them. Yet, he never said anything about it, and he hasn't brought it up since. 

Even then Mycroft wondered what would've happened if he had told somebody. It wasn't like they could've done anything about it. What happened...happened. But still, it had left a huge impression on him. He had learned to open his heart up to people. He had learned to love even for that short period of time. From where he was sitting, it was hard to tell if he still believed in the kind of love he had believed in that summer. He definitely believed in love when he was with Jas, but he wasn't sure if he believed in second chances for love. By this point he was losing hope of ever seeing Jasper again, and he wasn't certain if he could ever learn to love again. What if nobody ever made him feel like he had felt last summer? What if that was the last time he felt like he could be himself? And he kept it to himself. 

There was a loud pop and Sherlock crawled out from under the bed, his face and hair covered with soot. Their parents had heard the noise and came running into the room to see what had happened.

While his mother attended to the spilled chemicals on the floor that exploded in her little boy's face, Mycroft stuck the photograph of him and Jasper back in his pillow case along with all those memories. His head fell back on the pillow, and he closed his eyes.)

-

It was about 1 in the morning as Mycroft entered his route to 221B Bakerstreet. He wasn't entirely sure why he had decided to visit his brother at this hour, but he felt like he needed to talk to someone. Greg had sat through so many of Mycroft's problems, and he felt like Greg deserved better than to continuously listen to his whining.

God knows why he figured he could talk to his brother though, let alone at 1 in the morning. Although, again, at such a late hour, the only two people that were probably even awake were the two Holmes brothers, and Mycroft figured he'd take advantage of the opportunity. 

Sherlock's doorknob was crooked again. 

"How hard is it to just straighten a doorknob?" He muttered to himself and walked inside. 

Mrs. Hudson never seemed to lock the door anymore. What with Sherlock awake at all hours of the night anyway, she saw no need to do so because he kept complaining that no one was awake to let the clients in. What clients show up in the middle of the night is beyond Mycroft. He really didn't feel like getting involved in all the secret things that Sherlock did behind his back. He had enough to deal with just with the stuff he did with him noticing. He was a real pain in the ass, and that'll never change. 

"Hello, brother dear," Sherlock said when Myc entered.

He was sitting in his chair, not even facing the doorway.

"How did you...."

"1:15 A.M. in the middle of the week. Not really a thing most normal people would do is it? So ruling out normal, that pretty much leaves everyone I usually associate myself with which still rules out mostly everyone because even they wouldn't be up at this hour. So that leaves three people. Me, but of course that's not even an option because I'm already here, and I'm not aware of any doppelgängers or clones, so I'm most definitely already present. Next option is John because John is always finding the oddest reasons to come visit me these days. He misses the excitement, I suppose, but you aren't here to listen to me ramble about John."

"I'm not here for you to ramble about this either."

Sherlock, ignoring that comment, continued, "So that just leaves you. My dear older brother. Mycroft. The man who never sleeps, and for some odd reason always is trailed by the hint of pastries."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Are you done showing off?"

"Not quite," he jumped to his feet and finally turned to look at him. "John has been telling me about you and Lestrade."

"Has he now?" Myc grumbled.

"Oh yes. So I'm guessing you're here for my advice."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because you want to tell people, and you don't know how."

"And you do?"

"Not in the slightest," he made a motion for Mycroft to sit down.

"Sherlock, do you remember when we were kids, and we used to wonder if there was something wrong with us?" Mycroft asked.

"It's not something I'm likely to forget. You'd ask me it every night. It's been quite awhile since you've done so actually. You're off schedule."

"I'll try better from now on," he glared at him, "What do you think now?"

"Why does it matter?" 

Mycroft sighed. He really didn't want to get emotional with Sherlock. Throughout this entire experience with Greg, he had limited what he said to the bare amount he needed to explain that they were together. That was as far as he went, and he didn't want to have to go farther. Sherlock may be his brother, but that just wasn't something they did. It was a Holmes law of sorts.

"Curiosity," he said.

"People are ignorant," he said.

"You've improved upon calling them stupid, I see."

"Depends on the person." 

"Do you think Lestrade is stupid?"

"Gav...."

"Greg...."

"Greg. He's not the best of inspectors. I mean, he misses a lot of things that are in plain sight, and I pretty much solve the cases for him, but...." He stopped because Mycroft was giving him a death stare and sighed. "No, I don't."

"Never thought I'd hear those words coming out of your mouth."

"Don't get used to it."

"You act like such a child sometimes," Mycroft said. 

"Things haven't changed, have they?"

"No, I don't think they have," Myc crossed his arms. 

"So is that why you came here? To reminisce?"

"Actually yes." 

"Well?"

"What?"

"Go on then."

"Do you remember that one summer at camp?"


	15. Against All Odds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I actually think I'm going to end it here, my friends. Thank you so much for supporting me on my first official fanfic. I love you all.

Greg rubbed at his eyes and realized that Myc still hadn't come back to bed. It seemed odd given the time of night it was. He had only said he was going on a walk. That was quite a while back now. 2 hours probably. He rolled himself out of bed and grabbed for his robe. Mycroft never left for no reason like this unless there was something wrong. Perhaps it was Greg's response to him not telling the people at the office the truth. To be fair, he could've eased up on him. To Greg, it didn't seem like he was pushing past the limit, but Myc was so sensitive about everything. And maybe there was something else going on that he didn't know about. All he knew is that Mycroft was gone. 

It was a beautiful night out. Perfect for a nightly stroll, but, even then, not worthy of 2 hours. The first place that popped into Greg's mind was that Myc went to the park. He'd been visiting there quite often lately, though he wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was a good place for him to think. Greg never liked to bother him with questions. Besides, thinking was good, right? Maybe he just left to clear his head. It was a big announcement after all. He could be running what he was to say through his mind, and the night air could help the process. That made sense. 

But Myc was not on the usual park bench when he arrived, and that seemed odd to Greg.

The dial tone rang in his ear as he awaited the sound of Myc's voice on the other end of the phone. 1..2..3..4..5.

"Hello?" Finally.

"Mycroft, hey, where are you?" Greg panted into the phone, "Sorry, it's just that I've been a little worried."

"I just went for a walk," was the reply, "Where are you?"

"Well, I came looking for you. I'm in the park."

"I went to the office."

"It's way too early for that even for you."

"Yes, well, I had to think."

"Do you need to talk?" Greg asked, "I mean, I sort of shook you off this afternoon. I'm here if you need to talk. I'll come around."

"No, no," Myc said," Just go back to bed. Take the day off, I'll put Donovan in charge. Just go home."

"Is something wrong?" 

"No, no...I just need some time alone."

"I'm coming around."

Mycroft sighed.

"Really, I'm fine."

"I'm coming," Greg said sternly.

"If it pleases you," and they hung up.

-

Mycroft's office seemed a lot less intimidating then it used to through Greg's eyes. Before, he would be summoned either to deal with what Sherlock was planning (one of his "favorite" activities, mind you) or to be punished for something Sherlock already did (again, fantastic). Recently, Myc had been asking him to stop by during his lunch hour just to say hi. Not exactly the most romantic of interactions, but Greg could never keep the dorky smile off his face when he arrived with the daily newspaper. It was a wonder nobody already knew they were together. The smile, Greg. It was more of a smirk. He might as well had "I'm screwing Mycroft Holmes" tattooed on his forehead. Of course, they had progressed much farther past that these past few months. Greg was now certain he was in love, and he wanted nothing more than to be able to show it. Just think about it. Him walking into Mycroft's office, confidently, with a bouquet of flowers to give to his boyfriend. Boyfriend-he still loved the word.

"Myc?" Mycroft was facing away from him, messing with the books in the case behind his desk and complaining that they weren't in chronological order. 

"I swear, Anthea never learned the alphabet. C comes before F," he moved a set of books around.

"Something wrong?" Greg asked because he knew for a fact that there was this time.

"I went to 221B," he said.

"And?"

"We talked bout you."

"Good things I hope," Greg grinned and sat down in the spinning chair behind Myc's desk. "Bragging about me again, are you?"

"You got me," Myc's frown turned up a little on the corners. 

"So?" Greg asked. "What did you talk about?"

"I told him bout Jasper, and how you remind me so much of him. It didn't surprise me to hear that he already knew. I knew from the moment I started going out with Jas that he knew. Come to think of it, most people probably suspected something. Upon reflection, it was a little obvious."

"Why did you go to Sherlock's in the middle of the night?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"I had to talk, and I had nowhere else to go."

"You'd go to Sherlock over me? Excuse me for saying this, but that's a little odd, don't ya think?"

"I was embarrassed."

"Embarrassed? Why?"

Mycroft still wasn't looking at him and proceeded to scooting his boyfriend out of his desk chair so that he could arrange things for his daily routine. Might as well get a head start since he was there.

"Could you hand me that file?" He asked, and Greg obeyed although he wasn't finished asking questions.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"It was something you wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"My brother is a cold, heartless manipulative bastard," he said.

"Yes, we're all quite aware of that," Greg chuckled.

"He doesn't know what love is. I don't think he's ever even tried to understand. And recently I think he's been unconsciously striving for something I know for a fact that his brain, besides his massive intellect, is incapable of processing. Whether that is friendship, specifically that of John Watson, or just becoming somebody that the world would deem as more decent. Both of these are far-stretched for a man like him. But I think those unconscious drives are starting to come out. He's becoming more human. But he's far from being normal. But then again, what is normal? Am I normal?" He thought for a second. "Funny, I always thought of myself more like him. A mannequin. A model of a person. Intellect isn't everything, and I know that. Sherlock doesn't. And yet, I still find myself at his level. Do I really understand anything?"

"Why are you telling me this?"

Myc turned to look at him straight-on. His expression was hurt, yet stern, almost confused. Greg hadn't seen that look in a long time. Not since before they got together.

"Greg, what do you see when you look at me?" 

"What?"

"Just," his voice raised, but he lowered it again, "Tell me."

"Intelligent, shining personality, beautiful," Greg said.

"No," Myc responded, "What do you really see?"

"That is what I really see."

"Then you're blind," he brought his phone out of his pocket and looked at the reflection. "Because all I see is a lonely, insecure being. No glimmer of self-acceptance."

"But..."

"And you know what everyone else sees?"

Mycroft looked around his office. It was full of files. Responsibilities that needed to be tended to. Other people had pictures of family members, spouse, pets, anything to make the room seem a little less professional. Not Mycroft. Even the books in his bookshelf were encyclopedias or atlases. Nothing about his office said normal. It read "I'm the boss and don't fuck with me." That's exactly who he was. At least until he met Greg. Now he didn't even know who he was anymore.

"A freak of nature," he muttered, "An empty shell of a person. Strict. Heartless. What do you think they're going to think when they find out I'm really just this insignificant and broken creature with a mask? Do you know what that will do to my reputation? I won't gain any respect from my co-workers ever again. What's the point of being in charge if everyone thinks you're soft?"

"What's the point of being in charge if everyone fucking hates you?" Greg said sternly. 

"Gregory," Myc spun around to look at him, and he didn't think he had ever seen Greg so serious. 

"You're right," he said. "People think you're a freak."

"Oh, thanks, Greg. I appreciate the moral support," Myc sniffled. 

"You are strict. You are unreasonable. You can be scary, rude. It's true, you don't really understand how people think or how they feel. You're insecure. Scared."

"Ok, Greg, I get it," he growled in response.

"But you are not soft," Greg growled back.

"Ha," Mycroft wiped at his eyes, "Ya, tell that to the water coming from my eyes. Pff, I didn't even know what tears were until I met you. Not sure if that's a good thing or not. They'd be right to turn me away. How am I supposed to be a leader if I just cry all the time?"

"Why are you like this all of a sudden? I thought you were excited to finally show people who you really are. Like you said, people hate you, but that's exactly why you have to show them. Why are you holding back now?" 

"I'm weak."

"You're not weak. Look at me," Greg grabbed at his arm and squeezed tightly so that he almost burrowed his nails into the other man's skin. "Mycroft Holmes, look at me!"

"What?" His eyes were red. 

"You aren't weak. You're just someone who's been strong for way too long. That's why you have to express yourself. It's eating you away, and it isn't healthy. You're sick, Myc." 

"But how do I even bring something up like that?"

"Just make an announcement. You're the boss. Make them listen."

"But..."

"If they don't accept you, fuck them. Why should it matter what they think? If they give you a hard time, fire their asses."

"It's easy for you to say, people pretty much already knew in your case."

"What? You're saying I scream of being gay?" He was laughing.

"Oh ya, you're the gayest," Myc smiled a little, "But I meant people like you. Therefore they don't care."

"Well maybe people will like you too if they knew the truth. All they know is what you show them. I know who you are, and I think you're perfect. But you have to show THEM."

"I don't know if I can do it."

"I'll go with you."

"But..."

"I love you, and this is important. We do this together, and fight whatever flack we get. Against all odds, remember?" 

"Against all odds."


End file.
